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THE  TWO  PATHS. 


• -r 


THE  TWO  PATHS 


BEING 


LECTURES  01  ART, 

AND  ITS  APPLICATION  TO 

DECORATION  AND  MANUFACTURE, 

DELIVERED  IN  1858-9. 


BY  JOHN  BUSKIN,  M.A., 

AUTHOR  OF  “MODERN  PAINTERS,”  “STONES  OF  VENICE,”  “SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  AROHITEC* 
TURE,”  “ELEMENTS  OF  DRAWING,”  ETC. 


(Htitlj  |)Iates  mrb  Cats. 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  WILEY,  56  WALKER  STREET. 


R.  CRAIGHEAD, 

Printer,  Stereotyper,  ami  Electrotype/, 

Caiton  33iultftng, 

81,  83,  and  85  Centre  Street . 


PREFACE. 


The  following  addresses,  though  spoken  at  different  times,  are  inten- 
tionally connected  in  subject;  their  aim  being  to  set  one  or  two  main 
principles  of  art  in  simple  light  before  the  general  student,  and  to  indi- 
cate their  practical  bearing  on  modern  design.  The  law  which  it  has 
been  my  effort  chiefly  to  illustrate  is  the  dependence  of  all  noble  design, 
in  any  kind,  on  the  sculpture  or  painting  of  Organic  Form. 

This  is  the  vital  law ; lying  at  the  root  of  all  that  I have  ever  tried 
to  teach  respecting  architecture  or  any  other  art.  It  is  also  the  law 
most  generally  disallowed. 

I believe  this  must  be  so  in  every  subject.  We  are  all  of  us  willing 
enough  to  accept  dead  truths  or  blunt  ones ; which  can  be  fitted  harm- 
lessly into  spare  niches,  or  shrouded  and  coffined  at  once  out  of  the 
way,  we  holding  complacently  the  cemetery  keys,  and  supposing  we 
have  learned  something.  But  a sapling  truth,  with  earth  at  its  root 
and  blossom  on  its  branches ; or  a trenchant  truth,  that  can  cut  its  way 
through  bars  and  sods ; most  men,  it  seems  to  me,  dislike  the  sight  or 
entertainment  of,  if  by  any  means  such  guest  or  vision  may  be  avoided. 


Y1 


PBEFACE. 


And,  indeed,  this  is  no  wonder ; for  one  such  truth,  thoroughly  accepted, 
connects  itself  strangely  with  others,  and  there  is  no  saying  what  it 
may  lead  us  to. 

And  thus  the  gist  of  what  I have  tried  to  teach  about  architecture 
has  been  throughout  denied  by  my  architect  readers,  even  when  they 
thought  what  I said  suggestive  in  other  particulars.  “ Anything  but 
that.  Study  Italian  G-othic  ? — perhaps  it  would  be  as  well : build  with 
pointed  arches  ? — there  is  no  objection : use  solid  stone  and  well-burnt 
brick  ?— by  all  means : but— -learn  to  carve  or  paint  organic  form  our- 
selves! How  can  such  a thing  be  asked?  We  are  above  all  that. 
The  carvers  and  painters  are  our  servants — quite  subordinate  people. 
They  ought  to  be  glad  if  we  leave  room  for  them.” 

Well : on  that  it  all  turns.  For  those  who  will  not  learn  to  carve  or 
paint,  and  think  themselves  greater  men  because  they  cannot,  it  is 
wholly  wasted  time  to  read  any  words  of  mine ; in  the  truest  and 
sternest  sense  they  can  read  no  words  of  mine ; for  the  most  familiar 
I can  use — “form,”  “proportion,”  “beauty,”  “curvature,”  “colour” — 
are  used  in  a sense  which  by  no  effort  I can  communicate  to  such 
readers ; and  in  no  building  that  I praise,  is  the  thing  that  I praise  it 
for,  visible  to  them. 

And  it  is  the  more  necessary  for  me  to  state  this  fully ; because 
so-called  G-othic  or  Eomanesque  buildings  are  now  rising  every  day 
around  us,  which  might  be  supposed  by  the  public  more  or  less  to  em- 
body the  principles  of  those  styles,  but  which  embody  not  one  of  them, 
nor  any  shadow  or  fragment  of  them ; but  merely  serve  to  caricature 
the  noble  buildings  of  past  ages,  and  to  bring  their  form  into  dishonour 
by  leaving  out  their  soul. 


PREFACE. 


Vll 


The  following  addresses  are  therefore  arranged,  as  I have  just  stated, 
to  put  this  great  law,  and  one  or  two  collateral  ones,  in  less  mistakeable  ' 
light,  securing  even  in  this  irregular  form  at  least  clearness  of  assertion. 
For  the  rest,  the  question  at  issue  is  not  one  to  be  decided  by  argu- 
ment, but  by  experiment,  which  if  the  reader  is  disinclined  to  make, 
all  demonstration  must  be  useless  to  him. 

The  lectures  are  for  the  most  part  printed  as  they  were  read,  mend- 
ing only  obscure  sentences  here  and  there.  The  parts  which  were 
trusted  to  extempore  speaking  are  supplied,  as  well  as  I can  remember 
(only  with  an  addition  here  and  there  of  things  I forgot  to  say),  in  the 
words,  or  at  least  the  kind  of  words,  used  at  the  time ; and  they  con- 
tain, at  all  events,  the  substance  of  what  I said  more  accurately  than 
hurried  journal  reports.  I must  beg  my  readers  not  in  general  to  trust 
to  such,  for  even  in  fast  speaking  I try  to  use  words  carefully ; and  any 
alteration  of  expression  will  sometimes  involve  a great  alteration  in 
meaning.  A little  while  ago  I had  to  speak  of  an  architectural  design, 
and  called  it  “ elegant,”  meaning,  founded  on  good  and  well  “ elected” 
models;  the  printed  report  gave  “excellent”  design  (that  is  to  say, 
design  excellingly  good),  which  I did  not  mean,  and  should,  even  in  the 
most  hurried  speaking,  never  have  said. 

The  illustrations  of  the  lecture  on  iron  were  sketches  made  too  roughly 
to  be  engraved,  and  yet  of  too  elaborate  subjects  to  allow  of  my  draw- 
ing them  completely.  Those  now  substituted  will,  however,  answer 
the  purpose  nearly  as  well,  and  are  more  directly  connected  with  the 
subjects  of  the  preceding  lectures;  so  that  I hope  throughout  the 
volume  the  student  will  perceive  an  insistance  upon  one  main  truth, 
nor  lose  in  any  minor  direction  of  inquiry  the  sense  of  the  responsi- 


PREFACE. 


viii 

bility  which  the  acceptance  of  that  truth  fastens  upon  him ; responsi- 
bility for  choice,  decisive  and  conclusive,  between  two  modes  of  study, 
which  involve  ultimately  the  development,  or  deadening,  of  every 
power  he  possesses.  I have  tried  to  hold  that  choice  clearly  out  to 
him,  and  to  unveil  for  him  to  its  farthest  the  issue  of  his  turning  to  the 
right  hand  or  the  left.  G-uides  he  may  find  many,  and  aids  many ; but 
all  these  will  be  in  vain  unless  he  has  first  recognised  the  hour  and  the 
point  of  life  when  the  way  divides  itself,  one  way  leading  to  the  Olive 
mountains — one  to  the  vale  of  the  Salt  Sea.  There  are  few  cross 
roads,  that  I know  of,  from  one  to  the  other.  Let  him  pause  at  the 
parting  of  The  two  Paths. 


CONTENTS. 


Lecture  I.  The  Deteriorative  Power  of  Conventional  Art  over 

Nations, 11 

Lecture  II.  The  Unity  of  Art, 52 

Lecture  III.  Modern  Manufacture  and  Design,  . . . . 18 

Lecture  IY.  The  Influence  of  Imagination  in  Architecture,  . . 113 

Lecture  Y.  The  Work  of  Iron,  in  Nature,  Art,  and  Policy,  . 151 

APPENDICES, 201 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


LECTURE  I, 

THE  DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF  CONVENTIONAL  ART  OVER 

NATIONS. 

AN  INAUGURAL  LECTURE. 

Delivered  at  the  Kensington  Museum*  January , 1858. 

As  I passed,  last  summer,  for  the  first  time,  through  the 
north  of  Scotland,  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a peculiar 
painfulness  in  its  scenery,  caused  by  the  non-manifestation 
of  the  powers  of  human  art.  I had  never  travelled  in,  nor 
even  heard  or  conceived  of  such  a country  before ; nor, 
though  I had  passed  much  of  my  life  amidst  mountain 

* A few  introductory  words,  in  which,  at  the  opening  of  this  lec- 
ture, I thanked  the  Chairman  (Mr.  Cockerell),  for  his  support  on  the 
occasion,  and  asked  his  pardon  for  any  hasty  expressions  in  my  writ- 
ings, which  might  have  seemed  discourteous  towards  him,  or  other 
architects  whose  general  opinions  were  opposed  to  mine,  may  be  found 
by  those  who  care  for  preambles,  not  much  misreported,  in  the  Build- 
ing Chronicle  ; with  such  comments  as  the  genius  of  that  journal  was 
likely  to  suggest  to  it. 


12 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OP 


[LECT.  I. 


scenery  in  the  south,  was  I before  aware  how  much  of  its 
charm  depended  on  the  little  gracefulnesses  and  tender- 
nesses of  human  work,  which  are  mingled  with  the  beauty  of 
the  Alps,  or  spared  by  their  desolation.  It  is  true  that  the 
art  which  carves  and  colours  the  front  of  a Swiss  cottage  is 
not  of  any  very  exalted  kind ; yet  it  testifies  to  the  complete- 
ness and  the  delicacy  of  the  faculties  of  the  mountaineer  : 
it  is  true  that  the  remnants  of  tower  and  battlement,  which 
afford  footing  to  the  wild  vine  on  the  Alpine  promontory, 
form  but  a small  part  of  the  great  serration  of  its  rocks ; 
and  yet  it  is  just  that  fragment  of  their  broken  outline 
which  gives  them  their  pathetic  power,  and  historical 
majesty.  And  this  element  among  the  wilds  of  our  own 
country  I found  wholly  wanting.  The  Highland  cottage 
is  literally  a heap  of  gray  stones,  choked  up,  rather  than 
roofed  over,  with  black  peat  and  withered  heather;  the 
only  approach  to  an  effort  at  decoration  consists  in  the 
placing  of  the  clods  of  protective  peat  obliquely  on  its  roof, 
so  as  to  give  a diagonal  arrangement  of  lines,  looking  some- 
what as  if  the  surface  had  been  scored  over  by  a gigantic 
claymore. 

And,  at  least  among  the  northern  hills  of  Scotland,  ele- 
ments of  more  ancient  architectural  interest  are  equally 
absent.  The  solitary  peel-house  is  hardly  discernible  by 
the  windings  of  the  stream  ; the  roofless  aisle  of  the  priory 
is  lost  among  the  enclosures  of  the  village  ; and  the  capital 
city  of  the  Highlands,  Inverness,  placed  where  it  might 


LECT.  I.] 


COHVENTIONAL  ART. 


13 


ennoble  one  of  the  sweetest  landscapes,  and  by  the  shore  of 
one  of  the  loveliest  estuaries  in  the  world ; — placed  between 
the  crests  of  the  Grampians  and  the  flowing  of  the  Moray 
Firth,  as  if  it  were  a jewel  clasping  the  folds  of  the  moun- 
tains to  the  blue  zone  of  the  sea, — is  only  distinguishable 
from  a distance  by  one  architectural  feature,  and  exalts  all 
the  surrounding  landscape  by  no  other  associations  than 
those  which  can  be  connected  with  its  modern  castellated 
gaol. 

While  these  conditions  of  Scottish  scenery  affected  me 
very  painfully,  it  being  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I had 
been  in  any  country  possessing  no  valuable  monuments  or 
examples  of  art,  they  also  forced  me  into  the  consideration 
of  one  or  two  difficult  questions  respecting  the  effect  of  art 
on  the  human  mind ; and  they  forced  these  questions  upon 
me  eminently  for  this  reason,  that  while  I was  wandering 
disconsolately  among  the  moors  of  the  Grampians,  where 
there  was  no  art  to  be  found,  news  of  peculiar  interest  were 
every  day  arriving  from  a country  where  there  was  a great 
deal  of  art,  and  art  of  a delicate  kind,  to  be  found.  Among 
the  models  set  before  you  in  this  institution,  and  in  the 
others  established  throughout  the  kingdom  for  the  teaching 
of  design,  there  are,  I suppose,  none  in  their  kind  more 
admirable  than  the  decorated  works  of  India.  They  are, 
indeed,  in  all  materials  capable  of  colour,  wool,  marble,  or 
metal,  almost  inimitable  in  their  delicate  application  of 
divided  hue,  and  fine  arrangement  of  fantastic  line.  Nor 


14 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


is  this  power  of  theirs  exerted  by  the  people  rarely,  or 
without  enjoyment ; the  love  of  subtle  design  seems  uni- 
versal in  the  race,  and  is  developed  in  every  implement 
that  they  shape,  and  every  building  that  they  raise ; it 
attaches  itself  with  the  same  intensity,  and  with  the  same 
success,  to  the  service  of  superstition,  of  pleasure  or  of 
cruelty ; and  enriches  alike,  with  one  profusion  of  enchanted 
iridescence,  the  dome  of  the  pagoda,  the  fringe  of  the  girdle, 
and  the  edge  of  the  sword. 

So  then  you  have,  in  these  two  great  populations,  Indian 
and  Highland — in  the  races  of  the  jungle  and  of  the  moor 
— two  national  capacities  distinctly  and  accurately  opposed. 
On  the  one  side  you  have  a race  rejoicing  in  art,  and 
eminently  and  universally  endowed  with  the  gift  of  it ; on 
the  other  you  have  a people  careless  of  art,  and  apparently 
incapable  of  it,  their  utmost  effort  hitherto  reaching  no 
farther  than  to  the  variation  of  the  positions  of  the  bars  of 
colour  in  square  chequers.  And  we  are  thus  'urged 
naturally  to  enquire  what  is  the  effect  on  the  moral 
character,  in  each  nation,  of  this  vast  difference  in  their 
pursuits  and  apparent  capacities  ? and  whether  those  rude 
chequers  of  the  tartan,  or  the  exquisitely  fancied  involu- 
tions of  the  Cashmere,  fold  habitually  over  the  noblest 
hearts?  We  have  had  our  answer.  Since  the  race  of  man 
began  its  course  of  sin  on  this  earth,  nothing  has  ever  been 
done  by  it  so  significative  of  all  bestial,  and  lower  than 
bestial  degradation,  as  the  acts  of  the  Indian  race  in  the 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


15 


year  that  has  just  passed  by.  Cruelty  as  fierce  may  indeed 
have  been  wreaked?  and  brutality  as  abominable  been 
practised  before,  but  never  under  like  circumstances  ; rage 
of  prolonged  war,  and  resentment  of  prolonged  oppression, 
have  made  men  as  cruel  before  now ; and  gradual  decline 
into  barbarism,  where  no  examples  of  decency  or  civiliza- 
tion existed  around  them,  has  sunk,  before  now,  isolated 
populations  to  the  lowest  level  of  possible  humanity.  But 
cruelty  stretched  to  its  fiercest  against  the  gentle  and  un- 
offending, and  corruption  festered  to  its  loathsomest  in  the 
midst  of  the  witnessing  presence  of  a disciplined  civiliza- 
tion,—these  we  could  not  have  known  to  be  within  the 
practicable  compass  of  human  guilt,  but  for  the  acts  of  the 
Indian  mutineer.  And,  as  thus,  on  the  one  hand,  you  have 
an  extreme  energy  of  baseness  displayed  by  these  lovers 
of  art;  on  the  other, — as  if  to  put  the  question  into  the 
narrowest  compass — you  have  had  an  extreme  energy  of 
virtue  displayed  by  the  despisers  of  art.  Among  all  the 
soldiers  to  whom  you  owe  your  victories  in  the  Crimea, 
and  your  avenging  in  the  Indies,  to  none  are  you  bound 
by  closer  bonds  of  gratitude  than  to  the  men  who  have 
been  born  and  bred  among  those  desolate  Highland  moors. 
And  thus  you  have  the  differences  in  capacity  and  circum- 
stance between  the  two  nations,  and  the  differences  in  result 
on  the  moral  habits  of  two  nations,  put  into  the  most 
significant — the  most  palpable — the  most  brief  opposition. 
Out  of  the  peat  cottage  come  faith,  courage,  self-sacrifice, 


16 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


purity,  and  piety,  and  whatever  else  is  fruitful  in  the  work 
of  Heaven ; out  of  the  ivory  palace  come  treachery, 
cruelty,  cowardice,  idolatry,  bestiality, — whatever  else  is 
fruitful  in  the  work  of  Hell. 

But  the  difficulty  does  not  close  here.  From  one 
instance,  of  however  great  apparent  force,  it  would  be 
wholly  unfair  to  gather  any  general  conclusion — wholly 
illogical  to  assert  that  because  we  had  once  found  love  of 
art  connected  with  moral  baseness,  the  love  of  art  must  be 
the  general  root  of  moral  baseness ; and  equally  unfair  to 
assert  that,  because  we  had  once  found  neglect  of  art  coin- 
cident with  nobleness  of  disposition,  neglect  of  art  must  be 
always  the  source  or  sign  of  that  nobleness.  But  if  we 
pass  from  the  Indian  peninsula  into  other  countries  of  the 
globe  ; and  from  our  own  recent  experience,  to  the  records 
of  history,  we  shall  still  find  one  great  fact  fronting  us,  in 
stern  universality — namely,  the  apparent  connection  of 
great  success  in  art  with  subsequent  national  degradation. 
You  find,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  nations  which  possess- 
ed a refined  art  were  always  subdued  by  those  who 
possessed  none : you  find  the  Lydian  subdued  by  the 
Mede ; the  Athenian  by  the  Spartan ; the  Greek  by  the 
Roman  ; the  Roman  by  the  Goth  ; the  Burgundian  by  the 
Switzer : but  you  find,  beyond  this — that  even  where  no 
attack  by  any  external  power  has  accelerated  the  catastro- 
phe of  the  state,  the  period  in  which  any  given  people 
reach  their  highest  power  in  art  is  precisely  that  in  which 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


17 


they  appear  to  sign  the  warrant  of  their  own  ruin ; and 
that,  from  the  moment  in  which  a perfect  statue  appears 
in  Florence,  a perfect  picture  in  Venice,  or  a perfect  fresco 
in  Eome,  from  that  hour  forward,  probity,  industry,  and 
courage  seem  to  be  exiled  from  their  walls,  and  they  perish 
in  a sculpturesque  paralysis,  or  a many-coloured  corrup- 
tion. 

But  even  this  is  not  all.  As  art  seems  thus,  in  its  deli- 
cate form,  to  be  one  of  the  chief  promoters  of  indolence 
and  sensuality, — so,  I need  hardly  remind  you,  it  hitherto 
has  appeared  only  in  energetic  manifestation  when  it  was  in 
the  service  of  superstition.  The  four  greatest  manifesta-. 
tions  of  human  intellect  which  founded  the  four  principal 
kingdoms  of  art,  Egyptian,  Babylonian,  Greek,  and  Italian, 
were  developed  by  the  strong  excitement  of  active  super- 
stition in  the  worship  of  Osiris,  Belus,  Minerva,  and  the 
Queen  of  Heaven.  Therefore,  to  speak  briefly,  it  may  ap- 
pear very  difficult  to  show  that  art  has  ever  yet  existed  in  a 
consistent  and  thoroughly  energetic  school,  unless  it  was 
engaged  in  the  propagation  of  falsehood,  or  the  encourage- 
ment of  vice. 

And  finally,  while  art  has  thus  shown  itself  always  active 
in  the  service  of  luxury  and  idolatry,  it  has  also  been 
strongly  directed  to  the  exaltation  of  cruelty.  A nation 
which  lives  a pastoral  and  innocent  life  never  decorates  the 
shepherd’s  staff  or  the  plough-handle,  but  races  who  live 
by  depredation  and  slaughter  nearly  always  bestow  ex- 


18  DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF  [LECT.  I. 

quisite  ornaments  on  the  quiver,  the  helmet,  and  the 
spear. 

Does  it  not  seem  to  yon,  then,  on  all  these  three  counts, 
more  than  questionable  whether  we  are  assembled  here  in 
Kensington  museum  to  any  good  purpose  ? Might  we  not 
justly  be  looked  upon  with  suspicion  and  fear,  rather  than 
with  sympathy,  b}r  the  innocent  and  unartistical  public  ? 
Are  we  even  sure  of  ourselves  ? Do  we  know  what  we  are 
about  ? Are  we  met  here  as  honest  people  ? or  are  we  not 
rather  so  many  Catilines  assembled  to  devise  the  hasty  de- 
gradation of  our  country,  or,  like  a conclave  of  midnight 
witches,  to  summon  and  send  forth,  on  new  and  unexpect- 
ed missions,  the  demons  of  luxury,  cruelty,  and  supersti- 
tion? 

I trust,  upon  the  whole,  that  it  is  not  so : I am  sure  that 
Mr.  Kedgrave  and  Mr.  Cole  do  not  at  all  include  results  of 
this  kind  in  their  conception  of  the  ultimate  objects  of  the 
institution  which  owes  so  much  to  their  strenuous  and  well- 
directed  exertions.  And  I have  put  this  painful  question 
before  you,  only  that  we  may  face  it  thoroughly,  and,  as  I 
hope,  out-face  it.  If  you  will  give  it  a little  sincere  atten- 
tion this  evening,  I trust  we  may  find  sufficiently  good  rea- 
sons for  our  work,  and  proceed  to  it  hereafter,  as  all  good 
workmen  should  do,  with  clear  heads,  and  calm  consciences. 

To  return,  then,  to  the  first  point  of  difficulty,  the  rela- 
tions between  art  and  mental  disposition  in  India  and  Scot- 
land. It  is  quite  true  that  the  art  of  India  is  delicate  and 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


19 


refined.  But  it  lias  one  curious  character  distinguishing  it 
from  all  other  art  of  equal  merit  in  design— $ never  repre- 
sents a natural  fact . It  either  forms  its  compositions  out  of 
meaningless  fragments  of  colour  and  flowings  of  line ; or  if 
it  represents  any  living  creature,  it  represents  that  creature 
under  some  distorted  and  monstrous  form.  To  all  the  facts 
and  forms  of  nature  it  wilfully  and  resolutely  opposes 
itself;  it  will  not  draw  a man,  but  an  eight-armed  mon- 
ster ; it  will  not  draw  a flower,  but  only  a spiral  or  a zigzag. 

It  thus  indicates  that  the  people  who  practise  it  are  cut 
off  from  all  possible  sources  of  healthy  knowledge  or  na- 
tural delight ; that  they  have  wilfully  sealed  up  and  put 
aside  the  entire  volume  of  the  world,  and  have  got  nothing 
to  read,  nothing  to  dwell  upon,  but  that  imagination  of  the 
thoughts  of  their  hearts,  of  which  we  are  told  that  “ it  is  only 
evil  continually.”  Over  the  whole  spectacle  of  creation  they 
have  thrown  a veil  in  which  there  is  no  rent.  For  them  no 
star  peeps  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark  — for  them 
neither  their  heaven  shines  nor  their  mountains  rise — for 
them  the  flowers  do  not  blossom — for  them  the  creatures  of 
field  and  forest  do  not  live.  They  lie  bound  in  the  dungeon 
of  their  own  corruption,  encompassed  only  by  doleful  phan- 
toms, or  by  spectral  vacancy. 

Need  I remind  you  what  an  exact  reverse  of  this  condi- 
tion of  mind,  as  respects  the  observance  of  nature,  is  pre- 
sented by  the  people  whom  we  have  just  been  led  to  con- 
template in  contrast  with  the  Indian  race?  You  will  find 


20 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


upon  reflection,  that  all  the  highest  points  of  the  Scottish 
character  are  connected  with  impressions  derived  straight 
from  the  natural  scenery  of  their  country.  No  nation  has 
ever  before  shown,  in  the  general  tone  of  its  language — in 
the  general  current  of  its  literature — so  constant  a habit  of 
hallowing  its  passions  and  confirming  its  principles  by  direct 
association  with  the  charm,  or  power,  of  nature.  The  writ- 
ings of  Scott  and  Burns — and  yet  more,  of  the  far  greater 
poets  than  Burns  who  gave  Scotland  her  traditional  ballads, 

• — furnish  you  in  every  stanza— almost  in  every  line — with 
examples  of  this  association  of  natural  scenery  with  the 
passions  ;*  but  an  instance  of  its  farther  connection  with 
moral  principle  struck  me  forcibly  just  at  the  time  when  I 
was  most  lamenting  the  absence  of  art  among  the  people.  In 
one  of  the  loneliest  districts  of  Scotland,  where  the  peat  cot- 
tages are  darkest,  just  at  the  western  foot  of  that  great  mass  of 

* The  great  poets  of  Scotland,  like  the  great  poets  of  all  other  coun- 
tries, never  write  dissolutely,  either  in  matter  or  method ; but  with 
stern  and  measured  meaning  in  every  syllable.  Here’s  a bit  of  first-rate 
work  for  example : 

“ Tweed  said  to  Till, 

1 What  gars  ye  rin  sae  still  ? ’ 

Till  said  to  Tweed, 

1 Though  ye  rin  wi’  speed, 

And  I rin  slaw, 

Wharye  droon  ae  man, 

I droon  twa.’  ” 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  AET. 


21 


the  Grampians  which  encircles  the  sources  of  the  Spey  and 
the  Dee,  the  main  road  which  traverses  the  chain  winds  round 
the  foot  of  a broken  rock  called  Crag,  or  Craig  Ellachie. 
There  is  nothing  remarkable  in  either  its  height  or  form  ; 
it  is  darkened  with  a few  scattered  pines,  and  touched  along 
its  summit  with  a flush  of  heather ; but  it  constitutes  a kind 
of  headland,  or  leading  promontory,  in  the  group  of  hills  to 
which  it  belongs — a sort  of  initial  letter  of  the  mountains ; 
and  thus  stands  in  the  mind  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  dis- 
trict, the  Clan  Grant,  for  a type  of  their  country,  and  of  the 
influence  of  that  country  upon  themselves.  Their  sense  of 
this  is  beautifully  indicated  in  the  war-cry  of  the  clan, 
“Standfast,  Craig  Ellachie.”  You  may  think  long  over 
those  few  words  without  exhausting  the  deep  wells  of  feel- 
ing and  thought  contained  in  them — the  love  of  the  native 
land,  the  assurance  of  their  faithfulness  to  it ; the  subdued 
and  gentle  assertion  of  indomitable  courage — I may  need  to 
be  told  to  stand,  but,  if  I do,  Craig  Ellachie  does.  You  could 
not  but  have  felt,  had  you  passed  beneath  it  at  the  time 
when  so  many  of  England’s  dearest  children  were  being 
defended  by  the  strength  of  heart  of  men  born  at  its  foot, 
how  often  among  the  delicate  Indian  palaces,  whose  marble 
was  pallid  with  horror,  and  whose  vermilion  was  darkened 
with  blood,  the  remembrance  of  its  rough  grey  rocks  and 
purple  heaths  must  have  risen  before  the  sight  of  the  High- 
land soldier ; how  often  the  hailing  of  the  shot  and  the 
shriek  of  battle  would  pass  away  from  his  hearing,  and 


22  DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OP  [DECT.  I. 

leave  only  the  whisper  of  the  old  pine  branches — “Stand 
fast,  Craig  Ellachie ! ” 

You  have,  in  these  two  nations,  seen  in  direct  opposition 
the  effects  on  moral  sentiment  of  art  without  nature,  and  of 
nature  without  art.  And  you  see  enough  to  justify  you  in 
ssupecting — while,  if  you  choose  to  investigate  the  subject 
more  deeply  and  with  other  examples,  you  will  find  enough 
to  justify  you  in  concluding — that  art,  followed  as  such, 
and  for  its  own  sake,  irrespective  of  the  interpretation  of 
nature  by  it,  is  destructive  of  whatever  is  best  and  noblest 
in  humanity ; but  that  nature,  however  simply  observed,  or 
imperfectly  known,  is,  in  the  degree  of  the  affection  felt  for 
it,  protective  and  helpful  to  all  that  is  noblest  in  humanity. 

You  might  then  conclude  farther,  that  art,  so  far  as  it 
was  devoted  to  the  record  or  the  interpretation  of  nature, 
would  be  helpful  and  ennobling  also. 

And  you  would  conclude  this  with  perfect  truth.  Let 
me  repeat  the  assertion  distinctly  and  solemnly,  as  the  first 
that  I am  permitted  to  make  in  this  building,  devoted  in  a 
way  so  new  and  so  admirable  to  the  service  of  the  art-stu- 
dents of  England — Wherever  art  is  practised  for  its  own 
sake,  and  the  delight  of  the  workman  is  in  what  he  does 
and  produces,  instead  of  what  he  interprets  or  exhibits, — 
there  art  has  an  influence  of  the  most  fatal  kind  on  brain 
and  heart,  and  it  issues,  if  long  so  pursued,  in  the  destruc- 
tion both  of  intellectual  power  and  moral  principle  ; whereas 
art,  devoted  humbly  and  self-forgetfully  to  the  clear  state- 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


23 


ment  and  record  of  the  facts  of  the  universe,  is  always 
helpful  and  beneficent  to  mankind,  full  of  comfort,  strength, 
and  salvation. 

Now,  when  you  were  once  well  assured  of  this,  you 
might  logically  infer  another  thing,  namely,  that  when  Art 
was  occupied  in  the  function  in  which  she  was  serviceable, 
she  would  herself  be  strengthened  by  the  service;  and 
when  she  was  doing  what  Providence  without  doubt  in- 
tended her  to  do,  she  would  gain  in  vitality  and  dignity 
just  as  she  advanced  in  usefulness.  On  the  other  hand, 
you  might  gather,  that  when  her  agency  was  distorted  to 
the  deception  or  degradation  of  mankind,  she  would  herself 
be  equally  misled  and  degraded — that  she  would  be  checked 
in  advance,  or  precipitated  in  decline. 

And  this  is  the  truth  also;  and  holding  this  clue  you 
will  easily  and  justly  interpret  the  phenomena  of  history. 
So  long  as  Art  is  steady  in  the  contemplation  and  exhibi- 
tion of  natural  facts,  so  long  she  herself  lives  and  grows ; 
and  in  her  own  life  and  growth  partly  implies,  partly 
secures,  that  of  the  nation  in  the  midst  of  which  sbe  is 
practised.  But  a time  has  always  hitherto  come,  in  which, 
having  thus  reached  a singular  perfection,  she  begins  to 
contemplate  that  perfection,  and  to  imitate  it,  and  deduce 
rules  and  forms  from  it ; and  thus  to  forget  her  duty  and 
ministry  as  the  interpreter  and  discoverer  of  Truth.  And  in 
the  very  instant  when  this  diversion  of  her  purpose  and 
forgetfulness  of  her  function  take  place — forgetfulness  gene- 


24 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


rally  coincident  with  her  apparent  perfection— in  that  instant, 
I say,  begins  her  actual  catastrophe ; and  by  her  own  fall — 

so  far  as  she  has  influence — she  accelerates  the  ruin  of  the 
nation  by  which  she  is  practised. 

The  study,  however,  of  the  effect  of  art  on  the  mind  of 
nations  is  one  rather  for  the  historian  than  for  us ; at  all 
events  it  is  one  for  the  discussion  of  which  we  have  no  more 
time  this  evening.  But  I will  ask  your  patience  with  me 
while  I try  to  illustrate,  in  some  further  particulars,  the 
dependence  of  the  healthy  state  and  power  of  art  itself 
upon  the  exercise  of  its  appointed  function  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  fact. 

You  observe  that  I always  say  interpretation,  never  imi- 
tation. My  reason  for  so  doing  is,  first,  that  good  art  rarely 
imitates ; it  usually  only  describes  or  explains.  But  my 
second  and  chief  reason  is  that  good  art  always  consists  of 
two  things ; First,  the  observation  of  fact ; secondly,  the 
manifesting  of  human  design  and  authority  in  the  way  that 
fact  is  told.  Great  and  good  art  must  unite  the  two;  it 
cannot  exist  for  a moment  but  in  their  unity ; it  consists  of 
the  two  as  essentially  as  water  consists  of  oxygen  and 
hydrogen,  or  marble  of  lime  and  carbonic  acid. 

Let  us  inquire  a little  into  the  nature  of  each  of  the  ele- 
ments. The  first  element,  we  say,  is  the  love  of  Nature, 
leading  to  the  effort  to  observe  and  report  her  truly.  And 
this  is  the  first  and  leading  element.  Review  for  yourselves 
the  history  of  art,  and  you  will  find  this  to  be  a manifest 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


25 


certainty,  that  no  great  school  ever  yet  existed  which  had  not 
for  primal  aim  the  representation  of  some  natural  fact  as  truly 
as  possible . There  have  only  yet  appeared  in  the  world 
three  schools  of  perfect  art — schools,  that  is  to  say,  that  did 
their  work  as  well  as  it  seems  possible  to  do  it.  These  are 
the  Athenian,*  Florentine,  and  Yenetian.  The  Athenian 
proposed  to  itself  the  perfect  representation  of  the  form  of 
the  human  body.  It  strove  to  do  that  as  well  as  it  could; 
it  did  that  as  well  as  it  can  be  done  ; and  all  its  greatness 
was  founded  upon  and  involved  in  that  single  and  honest 
effort.  The  Florentine  school  proposed  to  itself  the  perfect 
expression  of  human  emotion — the  showing  of  the  effects  of 
passion  in  the  human  face  and  gesture.  I call  this  the  Flo- 
rentine school,  because,  whether  you  take  Eaphael  for  the 
culminating  master  of  expressional  art  in  Italy,  or  Leonardo, 
or  Michael  Angelo,  you  will  find  that  the  whole  energy  of 
the  national  effort  which  produced  those  masters  had  its  root 
in  Florence;  not  at  Urbino  or  Milan.  I say,  then,  this 
Florentine  or  leading  Italian  school  proposed  to  itself  hu- 
man expression  for  its  aim  in  natural  truth ; it  strove  to  do 
that  as  well  as  it  could — did  it  as  well  as  it  can  be  done — 
and  all  its  greatness  is  rooted  in  that  single  and  honest 
effort.  Thirdly,  the  Yenetian  school  proposed  the  represen- 
tation of  the  effect  of  colour  and  shade  on  all  things ; chiefly 
on  the  human  form.  It  tried  to  do  that  as  well  as  it  could 

* See  below,  the  farther  notice  of  the  real  spirit  of  Greek  work,  in  the 
address  at  Bradford. 


2 


26  DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF  [LECT.  I. 

• — did  it  as  well  as  it  can  be  done — and  all  its  greatness  is 
founded  on  that  single  and  honest  effort. 

Pray,  do  not  leave  this  room  without  a perfectly  clear 
holding  of  these  three  ideas.  You  may  try  them,  and  toss 
them  about  afterwards,  as  much  as  you  like,  to  see  if  they’ll 
bear  shaking ; but  do  let  me  put  them  well  and  plainly  into 
your  possession.  Attach  them  to  three  works  of  art  which 
you  all  have  either  seen  or  continually  heard  of.  There’s 
the  (so-called)  “ Theseus”  of  the  Elgin  marbles.  That  repre- 
sents the  whole  end  and  aim  of  the  Athenian  school — the 
natural  form  of  the  human  body.  All  their  conventional 
architecture — their  graceful  shaping  and  painting  of  pottery 
— whatsoever  other  art  they  practised — was  dependent  for 
its  greatness  on  this  sheet-anchor  of  central  aim : true  shape 
of  living  man.  Then  take,  for  your  type  of  the  Italian 
school,  Raphael’s  “ Disputa  del  Sacramento that  will  be 
an  accepted  type  by  everybody,  and  will  involve  no  possibly 
questionable  points : the  Germans  will  admit  it ; the  English 
academicians  will  admit  it;  and  the  English  purists  and 
pre-Raphaelites  will  admit  it.  Well,  there  you  have  the 
truth  of  human  expression  proposed  as  an  aim.  That  is 
the  way  people  look  when  they  feel  this  or  that — when  they 
have  this  or  that  other  mental  character : are  they  devo- 
tional, thoughtful,  affectionate,  indignant,  or  inspired?  are 
they  prophets,  saints,  priests,  or  kings  ? then — whatsoever 
is  truly  thoughtful,  affectionate,  prophetic,  priestly,  kingly 
• — that  the  Florentine  school  tried  to  discern,  and  show ; that 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


27 


they  have  discerned  and  shown ; and  all  their  greatness  is 
first  fastened  in  their  aim  at  this  central  truth — the  open  ex- 
pression of  the  living  human  soul. 

Lastly,  take  Veronese’s  “ Marriage  in  Cana”  in  the 
Louvre.  There  you  have  the  most  perfect  representation 
possible  of  colour,  and  light,  and  shade,  as  they  affect  the 
external  aspect  of  the  human  form,  and  its  immediate  acces- 
sories, architecture,  furniture,  and  dress.  This  external 
aspect  of  noblest  nature  was  the  first  aim  of  the  Venetians, 
and  all  their  greatness  depended  on  their  resolution  to 
achieve,  and  their  patience  in  achieving  it. 

Here,  then,  are  the  three  greatest  schools  of  the  former 
world  exemplified  for  you  in  three  well-known  works.  The 
Phidian  “ Theseus”  represents  the  Greek  school  pursuing 
truth  of  form;  the  “ Disputa”  of  Raphael,  the  Florentine 
school  pursuing  truth  of  mental  expression ; the  “ Marriage 
in  Cana,”  the  Venetian  school  pursuing  truth  of  colour  and 
light.  But  do  not  suppose  that  the  law  which  I am  stating 
to  you — the  great  law  of  art-life — can  only  be  seen  in  these, 
the  most  powerful  of  all  art  schools.  It  is  just  as  manifest 
in  each  and  every  school  that  ever  has  had  life  in  it  at  all. 
Wheresoever  the  search  after  truth  begins,  there  life  begins ; 
wheresoever  that  search  ceases,  there  life  ceases.  As  long 
as  a school  of  art  holds  any  chain  of  natural  facts,  trying  to 
discover  more  of  them  and  express  them  better  daily,  it  may 
play  hither  and  thither  as  it  likes  on  this  side  of  the  chain 
or  that;  it  may  design  grotesques  and  conventionalisms, 


28 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


build  the  simplest  buildings,  serve  the  most  practical  utili- 
ties, yet  all  it  does  will  be  gloriously  designed  and  gloriously 
done ; but  let  it  once  quit  hold  of  the  chain  of  natural  fact, 
cease  to  pursue  that  as  the  clue  to  its  work ; let  it  propose 
to  itself  any  other  end  than  preaching  this  living  word,  and 
think  first  of  showing  its  own  skill  or  its  own  fancy,  and 
from  that  hour  its  fall  is  precipitate — its  destruction  sure ; 
nothing  that  it  does  or  designs  will  ever  have  life  or  loveli- 
ness in  it  more ; its  hour  has  come,  and  there  is  no  work, 
nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom  in  the  grave  whither 
it  goeth. 

Let  us  take  for  example  that  school  of  art  over  which 
many  of  you  would  perhaps  think  this  law  had  but  little 
power — the  school  of  Gothic  architecture.  Many  of  us 
may  have  been  in  the  habit  of  thinking  of  that  school 
rather  as  of  one  of  forms  than  of  facts — -a  school  of  pin- 
nacles, and  buttresses,  and  conventional  mouldings,  and 
disguise  of  nature  by  monstrous  imaginings — not  a school 
of  truth  at  all.  I think  I shall  be  able,  even  in  the  little 
time  we  have  to-night,  to  show  that  this  is  not  so ; and  that 
our  great  law  holds  just  as  good  at  Amiens  and  Salisbury 
as  it  does  at  Athens  and  Florence. 

I will  go  back  then  first  to  the  very  beginnings  of  Gothic 
art,  and  before  you,  the  students  of  Kensington,  as  an  im- 
pannelled  jury,  I will  bring  two  examples  of  the  barbarism 
out  of  which  Gothic  art  emerges,  approximately  contem- 
porary in  date  and  parallel  in  executive  skill ; but,  the  one, 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


29 


a barbarism  that  did  not  get  on,  and  could  not  get  on ; the 
other,  a barbarism  that  could  get  on,  and  did  get  on  ; and 
you,  the  impannelled  jury,  shall  judge  what  is  the  essential 
difference  between  the  two  barbarisms,  and  decide  for  your- 
selves what  is  the  seed  of  life  in  the  one,  and  the  sign  of 
death  in  the  other. 

The  first, — -that  which  has  in  it  the  sign  of  death, — fur- 
nishes us  at  the  same  time  with  an  illustration  far  too  inter- 
esting to  be  passed  by,  of  certain  principles  much  depended 
on  by  our  common  modern  designers.  Taking  up  one  of 
our  architectural  publications  the  other  day,  and  opening 
it  at  random,  I chanced  upon  this  piece  of  information,  put 
in  rather  curious  English ; but  you  shall  have  it  as  it  stands — 

u Aristotle  asserts,  that  the  greatest  species  of  the  beauti- 
ful are  Order,  Symmetry,  and  the  Definite.” 

I should  tell  you,  however,  that  this  statement  is  not  given 
as  authoritative ; it  is  one  example  of  various  Architectural 
teachings,  given  in  a report  in  the  Building  Chronicle  for 
May,  1857,  of  a lecture  on  Proportion ; in  which  the  only 
thing  the  lecturer  appears  to  have  proved  was  that, — 

“ The  system  of  dividing  the  diameter  of  the  shaft  of  a column  into 
parts  for  copying  the  ancient  architectural  remains  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
adopted  by  architects  from  Vitruvius  (circa  b.c.  25)  to  the  present 
period,  as  a method  for  producing  ancient  architecture,  is  entirely  use- 
less, for  the  several  parts  of  Grecian  architecture  cannot  be  reduced  or 
subdivided  by  this  system ; neither  does  it  apply  to  the  architecture  of 
Rome.” 


30 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


Still,  as  far  as  I can  make  it  out,  the  lecture  appears  to 
have  been  just  one  of  those  of  which  you  will  at  present 
hear  so  many,  the  protests  of  architects  who  have  no  know- 
ledge of  sculpture — or  of  any  other  mode  of  expressing 
natural  beauty — against  natural  beauty;  and  their  endea- 
vour to  substitute  mathematical  proportions  for  the  know- 
ledge of  life  they  do  not  possess,  and  the  representation  of 
life  of  which  they  are  incapable.  Now,  this  substitution 
of  obedience  to  mathematical  law  for  sympathy  with 
observed  life,  is  the  first  characteristic  of  the  hopeless  work 
of  all  ages ; as  such,  you  will  find  it  eminently  manifested 
in  the  specimen  I have  to  give  you  of  the  hopeless  Gothic 
barbarism ; the  barbarism  from  which  nothing  could 

emerge — for  which  no  future  was 
possible  but  extinction.  The 
Aristotelian  principles  of  the 
Beautiful  are,  you  remember, 
Order,  Symmetry,  and  the  Defi- 
nite. Here  you  have  the  three, 
in  perfection,  applied  to  the 
ideal  of  an  angel,  in  a psalter 
of  the  eighth  century,  existing 
in  the  library  of  St.  J ohn’s  Col- 
lege, Cambridge.* 

Now,  you  see  the  characteristics  of  this  utterly  dead  school 


* I copy  this  woodcut  from  Westwood’s  u Paheographia  Sacra.’’ 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


31 


are,  first  the  wilful  closing  of  its  eyes  to  natural  facts ; — for, 
however  ignorant  a person  may  be,  he  need  only  look  at  a 
human  being  to  see  that  it  has  a mouth  as  well  as  eyes ; 
and  secondly,  the  endeavour  to  adorn  or  idealize  natural 
fact  according  to  its  own  notions : it  puts  red  spots  in  the 
middle  of  the  hands,  and  sharpens  the  thumbs,  thinking  to 
improve  them.  Here  you  have  the  most  pure  type  possi- 
ble of  the  principles  of  idealism  in  all  ages : whenever  peo- 
ple don’t  look  at  Nature,  they  always  think  they  can 
improve  her.  You  will  also  admire,  doubtless,  the  exquisite 
result  of  the  application  of  our  great  modern  architectural 
principle  of  beauty — symmetry,  or  equal  balance  of  part 
by  part ; you  see  even  the  eyes  are  made  symmetrical — 
entirely  round,  instead  of  irregular,  oval ; and  the  iris  is  set 
properly  in  the  middle,  instead  of — as  nature  has  absurdly 
put  it — rather  under  the  upper  lid.  You  will  also  observe 
the  “principle  of  the  pyramid”  in  the  general  arrangement 
of  the  figure,  and  the  value  of  “ series”  in  the  placing  of 
dots. 

From  this  dead  barbarism  we  pass  to  living  barbarism — 
to  work  done  by  hands  quite  as  rude,  if  not  ruder,  and  by 
minds  as  uninformed ; and  yet  work  which  in  every  line 
of  it  is  prophetic  of  power,  and  has  in  it  the  sure  dawn  of 
day.  You  have  often  heard  it  said  that  Giotto  was  the 
founder  of  art  in  Italy.  He  was  not:  neither  he,  nor 
Giunta  Pisano,  nor  Niccolo  Pisano.  They  all  laid  strong 
hands  to  the  work,  and  brought  it  first  into  aspect  above 


82 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


ground ; but  the  foundation  had  been  laid  for  them  by 
the  builders  of  the  Lombardie  churches  in  the  valleys  of 
the  Adda  and  the  Arno.  It  is  in  the  sculpture  of  the 
round  arched  churches  of  North  Italy,  bearing  disputable 
dates,  ranging  from  the  eighth  to  the  twelfth  century, 
that  you  will  find  the  lowest  struck  roots  of  the  art  of 
Titian  and  Raphael.*  I go,  therefore,  to  the  church 
which  is  certainly  the  earliest  of  these,  St.  Ambrogio,  of 
Milan,  said  still  to  retain  some  portions  of  the  actual 
structure  from  which  St.  Ambrose  excluded  Theodosius, 
and  at  all  events  furnishing  the  most  archaic  examples  of 
Lombardie  sculpture  in  North  Italy.  I do  not  venture  to 
guess  their  date ; they  are  barbarous  enough  for  any 
date. 

We  find  the  pulpit  of  this  church  covered  with  in- 
terlacing patterns,  closely  resembling  those  of  the  manu- 
script at  Cambridge,  but  among  them  is  figure  sculpture  of 
a very  different  kind.  It  is  wrought  with  mere  incisions  in 
the  stone,  of  which  the  effect  may  be  tolerably  given  by 
single  lines  in  a drawing.  Remember,  therefore,  for  a 
moment — as  characteristic  of  culminating  Italian  art — 
Michael  Angelo’s  fresco  of  the  “ Temptation  of  Eve,”  in 
the  Sistine  chapel,  and  you  will  be  more  interested  in  seeing 
the  birth  of  Italian  art,  illustrated  by  the  same  subject, 

* I have  said  elsewhere,  u the  root  of  all  art  is  struck  in  the  thirteenth 
century.”  This  is  quite  true : but  of  course  some  of  the  smallest  fibres 
run  lower,  as  in  this  instance. 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


33 


from  St.  Ambrogio,  of  Milan,  the  u Serpent  beguiling 
Eve.”* 

Yet,  in  that  sketch,  rude  and  ludicrous  as  it  is,  you  have 


the  elements  of  life  in  their  first  form.  The  people  who 
could  do  that  were  sure  to  get  on.  For,  observe,  the  work- 
man’s whole  aim  is  straight  at  the  facts,  as  well  as  he  can 
get  them  ; and  not  merely  at  the  facts,  but  at  the  very  heart 
of  the  facts.  A common  workman  might  have  looked  at 
nature  for  his  serpent,  but  he  would  have  thought  only  of 
its  scales.  But  this  fellow  does  not  want  scales,  nor  coils ; 
he  can  do  without  them ; he  wants  the  serpent’s  heart — • 

* This  cut  is  ruder  than  it  should  be : the  incisions  in  the  marble 
have  a lighter  effect  than  these  rough  black  lines ; but  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  do  it  better. 


2* 


34 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


malice  and  insinuation  ; — and  lie  has  actually  got  them  to 
some  extent.  So  also  a common  workman,  even  in  this 
barbarous  stage  of  art,  might  have  carved  Eve’s  arms  and 
body  a good  deal  better ; but  this  man  does  not  care  about 
arms  and  body,  if  he  can  only  get  at  Eve’s  mind — show 
that  she  is  pleased  at  being  flattered,  and  yet  in  a state  of 
uncomfortable  hesitation.  And  some  look  of  listening,  of 
complacency,  and  of  embarrassment  he  has  verily  got: — 
note  the  eyes  slightly  askance,  the  lips  compressed,  and  the 
right  hand  nervously  grasping  the  left  arm:  nothing  can 
be  declared  impossible  to  the  people  who  could  begin  thus 
— the  world  is  open  to  them,  and  all  that  is  in  it ; while, 
on  the  contrary,  nothing  is  possible  to  the  man  who  did 
the  symmetrical  angel — the  world  is  keyless  to  him ; he  has 
built  a cell  for  himself  in  which  he  must  abide,  barred  up 
for  ever — there  is  no  more  hope  for  him  than  for  a sponge 
or  a madrepore. 

I shall  not  trace  from  this  embryo  the  progress  of  Gothic 
art  in  Italy,  because  it  is  much  complicated  and  involved 
with  traditions  of  other  schools,  and  because  most  of  the 
students  will  be  less  familiar  with  its  results  than  with  their 
own  northern  buildings.  So,  these  two  designs  indicating 
Death  and  Life  in  the  beginnings  of  mediaeval  art,  we  will 
take  an  example  of  the  progress  of  that  art  from  our  north- 
ern work.  Now,  many  of  you,  doubtless,  have  been  in- 
terested by  the  mass,  grandeur,  and  gloom  of  Norman 
architecture,  as  much  as  by  Gothic  traceries ; and  when  you 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


35 


hear  me  say  that  the  root  of  all  good  work  lies  in  natural 
facts,  you  doubtless  think  instantly  of  your  round  arches, 
with  their  rude  cushion  capitals,  and  of  the  billet  or  zigzag 
work  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  and  you  cannot  see 
what  the  knowledge  of  nature  has  to  do  with  either  the 
simple  plan  or  the  rude  mouldings.  But  all  those  simple 
conditions  of  Norman  art  are  merely  the  expiring  of  it  to- 
wards the  extreme  north.  Do  not  study  Norman  archi- 
tecture in  Northumberland,  but  in  Normandy,  and  then  you 
will  find  that  it  is  just  a peculiarly  manly,  and  practically 
useful,  form  of  the  whole  great  French  school  of  rounded 
architecture.  And  where  has  that  French  school  its  origin  ? 
Wholly  in  the  rich  conditions  of  sculpture,  which,  rising 
first  out  of  imitations  of  the  Roman  bas-reliefs,  covered 
all  the  fa9ades  of  the  French  early  churches  with  one  con- 
tinuous arabesque  of  floral  or  animal  life.  If  you  want  to 
study  round-arched  buildings,  do  not  go  to  Durham,  but 
go  to  Poictiers,  and  there  you  will  see  how  all  the  simple 
decorations  which  give  you  so  much  pleasure  even  in  their 
isolated  application  were  invented  by  persons  practised  in 
carving  men,  monsters,  wild  animals,  birds,  and  flowers,  in 
overwhelming  redundance ; and  then  trace  this  architecture 
forward  in  central  France,  and  you  will  find  it  loses 
nothing  of  its  richness — it  only  gains  in  truth,  and  there- 
fore in  grace,  until  just  at  the  moment  of  transition  into  the 
1 ointed  style,  you  have  the  consummate  type  of  the  sculp- 
ture of  the  school  given  you  in  the  west  front  of  the  Ca- 


36  DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF  [LECT:  I. 

thedral  of  Chartres.  From  that  front  I have  chosen  two 
fragments  to  illustrate  it.* 

These  statues  have  been  long,  and  justly,  considered  as 
representative  of  the  highest  skill  of  the  twelfth  or  earliest 
part  of  the  thirteenth  century  in  France  ; and  they  indeed 
possess  a dignity  and  delicate  charm,  which  are  for  the  most 
part  wanting  in  later  works.  It  is  owing  partly  to  real 
nobleness  of  feature,  but  chiefly  to  the  grace,  mingled  with 
severity,  of  the  falling  lines  of  excessively  thin  drapery ; as 
well  as  to  a most  studied  finish  in  composition,  every  part 
of  the  ornamentation  tenderly  harmonizing  with  the  rest. 
So  far  as  their  power  over  certain  tones  of  religious  mind 
is  owing  to  a palpable  degree  of  non-naturalism  in  them,  I 
do  not  praise  it — -the  exaggerated  thinness  of  body  and  stiff- 
ness of  attitude  are  faults ; but  they  are  noble  faults,  and 
give  the  statues  a strange  look  of  forming  part  of  the  very 
building  itself,  and  sustaining  it — not  like  the  Greek  cary- 
atid, without  effort — nor  like  the  Renaissance  caryatid,  by 
painful  or  impossible  effort — but  as  if  all  that  was  silent 
and  stern,  and  withdrawn  apart,  and  stiffened  in  chill  of 
heart  against  the  terror  of  earth,  had  passed  into  a shape  of 

* This  part  of  the  lecture  was  illustrated  by  two  drawings,  made 
admirably  by  Mr.  J.  T.  Laing,  with  the  help  of  photographs  from  statues 
at  Chartres.  The  drawings  may  be  seen  at  present  at  the  Kensington 
Museum  ; but  any  large  photograph  of  the  west  front  of  Chartres  will 
enable  the  reader  to  follow  what  is  stated  in  the  lecture,  as  far  as  is 
needful. 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  AKT. 


37 


eternal  marble ; and  thus  the  Ghost  had  given,  to  bear  up 
the  pillars  of  the  church  on  earth,  all  the  patient  and  ex- 
pectant nature  that  it  needed  no  more  in  heaven.  This  is 
the  transcendental  view  of  the  meaning  of  those  sculptures, 
I do  not  dwell  upon  it.  What  I do  lean  upon  is  their 
purely  naturalistic  and  vital  power.  They  are  all  portraits 
—unknown,  most  of  them,  I believe, — but  palpably  and 
unmistakeably  portraits,  if  not  taken  from  the  actual  per- 
son for  whom  the  statue  stands,  at  all  events  studied  from 
some  living  person  whose  features  might  fairly  represent 
those  of  the  king  or  saint  intended.  Several  of  them  I 
suppose  to  be  authentic : there  is  one  of  a queen,  who  has 
evidently,  while  she  lived,  been  notable  for  her  bright  black 
eyes.  The  sculptor  has  cut  the  iris  deep  into  the  stone,  and 
her  dark  eyes  are  still  suggested  with  her  smile. 

There  is  another  thing  I wish  you  to  notice  specially  in 
these  statues — the  way  in  which  the  floral  moulding  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  vertical  lines  of  the  figure.  You  have  thus 
the  utmost  complexity  and  richness  of  curvature  set  side  by 
side  with  the  pure  and  delicate  parallel  lines,  and  both  the 
characters  gain  in  interest  and  beauty ; but  there  is  deeper 
significance  in  the  thing  than  that  of  mere  effect  in  compo- 
sition ; — significance  not  intended  on  the  part  of  the  sculp- 
tor, but  all  the  more  valuable  because  unintentional.  I 
mean  the  close  association  of  the  beauty  of  lower  nature  in 
animals  and  flowers,  with  the  beauty  of  higher  nature  in 
human  form.  You  never  get  this  in  Greek  work.  Greek 


38 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


statues  are  always  isolated  ; blank  fields  of  stone,  or  depths 
of  shadow,  relieving  the  form  of  the  statue,  as  the  world  of 
lower  nature  which  they  despised  retired  in  darkness  from 
their  hearts.  Here,  the  clothed  figure  seems  the  type  of 
the  Christian  spirit — -in  many  respects  feebler  and  more 
contracted— but  purer  ; clothed  in  its  white  robes  and 
crown,  and  with  the  riches  of  all  creation  at  its  side. 

The  next  step  in  the  change  will  be  set  before  you  in  a 
moment,  merely  by  comparing  this  statue  from  the  west 
front  of  Chartres  with  that  of  the  Madonna,  from  the  south 
transept  door  of  Amiens.* 

This  Madonna,  with  the  sculpture  round  her,  represents 
the  culminating  power  of  Gothic  art  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. Sculpture  has  been  gaining  continually  in  the  inter- 
val; gaining,  simply  because  becoming  every  day'  more 
truthful,  more  tender,  and  more  suggestive.  By  the  way, 
the  old  Douglas  motto,  “ Tender  and  true,”  may  wisely  be 
taken  up  again  by  all  of  us,  for  our  own,  in  art  no  less  than 
in  other  things.  Depend  upon  it,  the  first  universal  cha- 
racteristic of  all  great  art  is  Tenderness,  as  the  second  is 
Truth.  I find  this  more  and  more  every  day : an  infinitude 
of  tenderness  is  the  chief  gift  and  inheritance  of  all  the 
truly  great  men.  It  is  sure  to  involve  a relative  intensity 
of  disdain  towards  base  things,  and  an  appearance  of  stern- 

* There  are  many  photographs  of  this  door  and  of  its  central  statue. 
Its  sculpture  in  the  tympanum  is  farther  described  in  the  Fourth  Lec- 


ture. 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


39 


ness  and  arrogance  in  the  eyes  of  all  hard,  stupid,  and  vul- 
gar people — quite  terrific  to  such,  if  they  are  capable  of 
terror,  and  hateful  to  them,  if  they  are  capable  of  nothing 
higher  than  hatred.  Dante’s  is  the  great  type  of  this  class 
of  mind.  I say  the  first  inheritance  is  Tenderness — the 
second  Truth,  because  the  Tenderness  is  in  the  make  of  the 
creature,  the  Truth  in  his  acquired  habits  and  knowledge : 
besides,  the  love  comes  first  in  dignity  as  well  as  in  time, 
and  that  is  always  pure  and  complete  : the  truth,  at  best, 

imperfect. 

To  come  back  to  our  statue.  You  will  observe  that  the 
arrangement  of  this  sculpture  is  exactly  the  same  as  at 
Chartres — severe  falling  drapery,  set  off*  by  rich  floral 
ornament  at  the  side ; but  the  statue  is  now  completely 
animated : it  is  no  longer  fixed  as  an  upright  pillar,  but 
bends  aside  out  of  its  niche,  and  the  floral  ornament,  in- 
stead of  being  a conventional  wreath,  is  of  exquisitely 
arranged  hawthorn.  The  work,  however,  as  a whole, 
though  perfectly  characteristic  of  the  advance  of  the  age  in 
style  and  purpose,  is  in  some  subtler  qualities  inferior  to 
that  of  Chartres.  The  individual  sculptor,  though  trained 
in  a more  advanced  school,  has  been  himself  a man  of  infe- 
rior order  of  mind  compared  to  the  one  who  worked  at 
Chartres.  But  I have  not  time  to  point  out  to  you  the 
subtler  characters  by  which  I know  this. 

This  statue,  then,  marks  the  culminating  point  of  Gothic 
art,  because,  up  to  this  time,  the  eyes  of  its  designers  had 


40 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


been  steadily  fixed  on  natural  truth — they  had  been  ad- 
vancing from  flower  to  flower,  from  form  to  form,  from  face 
to  face, — gaining  perpetually  in  knowledge  and  veracity — 
therefore,  perpetually  in  power  and  in  grace.  But  at  this 
point  a fatal  change  came  over  their  aim.  From  the  statue 
they  now  began  to  turn  the  attention  chiefly  to  the  niche 
of  the  statue,  and  from  the  floral  ornament  to  the  mould- 
ings that  enclosed  the  floral  ornament.  The  first  result 
of  this  was,  however,  though  not  the  grandest,  yet  the  most 
finished  of  northern  genius.  You  have,  in  the  earlier 
Gothic,  less  wonderful  construction,  less  careful  masonry, 
far  less  expression  of  harmony  of  parts  in  the  balance  of 
the  building.  Earlier  work  always  has  more  or  less  of  the 
character  of  a good  solid  wall  with  irregular  holes  in  it, 
well  carved  wherever  there  is  room.  But  the  last  phase  of 
good  Gothic  has  no  room  to  spare;  it  rises  as  high  as  it 
can  on  narrowest  foundation,  stands  in  perfect  strength 
with  the  least  possible  substance  in  its  bars ; connects  niche 
with  niche,  and  line  with  line,  in  an  exquisite  harmony, 
from  which  no  stone  can  be  removed,  and  to  which  you  can 
add  not  a pinnacle  ; and  yet  introduces  in  rich,  though  now 
more  calculated  profusion,  the  living  element  of  its  sculp- 
ture : sculpture  in  the  quatrefoils — sculpture  in  the  brack- 
ets— sculpture  in  the  gargoyles — sculpture  in  the  niches — 
sculpture  in  the  ridges  and  hollows  of  its  mouldings, — not  a 
shadow  without  meaning,  and  not  a light  without  life.* 

* The  two  transepts  of  Rouen  Cathedral  illustrate  this  style.  There 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  AET. 


41 


But  with  this  very  perfection  of  his  work  came  the  un- 
happy  pride  of  the  builder  in  what  he  had  done.  As  long' 
as  he  had  been  merely  raising  clumsy  walls  and  carving 
them  like  a child,  in  waywardness  of  fancy,  his  delight 
was  in  the  things  he  thought  of  as  he  carved ; but  when 
he  had  once  reached  this  pitch  of  constructive  science,  he 
began  to  think  only  how  cleverly  he  could  put  the  stones 
together.  The  question  was  not  now  with  him,  What  can 
I represent  ? but,  How  high  can  I build — how  wonderfully 
can  I hang  this  arch  in  air,  or  weave  this  tracery  across  the 
clouds  ? And  the  catastrophe  was  instant  and  irrevocable. 
Architecture  became  in  France  a mere  web  of  waving  lines, 
— in  England  a mere  grating  of  perpendicular  ones.  Re- 
dundance was  substituted  for  invention,  and  geometry  for 
passion ; the  Gothic  art  became  a mere  expression  of  wan- 
ton expenditure,  and  vulgar  mathematics  ; and  was  swept 
away,  as  it  then  deserved  to  be  swept  away,  by  the  severer 
pride,  and  purer  learning,  of  the  schools  founded  on  classi- 
cal traditions. 

You  cannot  now  fail  to  see  how,  throughout  the  history 
of  this  wonderful  art — from  its  earliest  dawn  in  Lombardy 
to  its  last  catastrophe  in  France  and  England — sculpture , 
founded  on  love  of  nature,  was  the  talisman  of  its  exist- 

are  plenty  of  photographs  of  them.  I take  this  opportunity  of  re- 
peating what  I have  several  times  before  stated,  for  the  sake  of  travel- 
lers, that  St.  Ouen,  impressive  as  it  is,  is  entirely  inferior  to  the  tran- 
septs of  Eouen  Cathedral. 


42 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


ence ; wherever  sculpture  was  practised,  architecture  arose 
• — wherever  that  was  neglected,  architecture  expired ; and, 
believe  me,  all  you  students  who  love  this  mediaeval  art, 
there  is  no  hope  of  your  ever  doing  any  good  with  it,  but 
on  this  everlasting  principle.  Your  patriotic  associations 
with  it  are  of  no  use ; your  romantic  associations  with  it — 
either  of  chivalry  or  religion — are  of  no  use;  they  are 
worse  than  useless,  they  are  false.  Gothic  is  not  an  art  for 
knights  and  nobles ; it  is  an  art  for  the  people  : it  is  not  an 
art  for  churches  or  sanctuaries ; it  is  an  art  for  houses  and 
homes : it  is  not  an  art  for  England  only,  but  an  art  for 
the  world : above  all,  it  is  not  an  art  of  form  or  tradition 
only,  but  an  art  of  vital  practice  and  perpetual  renewal. 
And  whosoever  pleads  for  it  as  an  ancient  or  a formal 
thing,  and  tries  to  teach  it  you  as  an  ecclesiastical  tradition 
or  a geometrical  science,  knows  nothing  of  its  essence,  less 
than  nothing  of  its  power. 

Leave,  therefore,  boldly,  though  not  irreverently,  mysti- 
cism and  symbolism  on  the  one  side ; cast  away  with  utter 
scorn  geometry  and  legalism  on  the  other ; seize  hold  of 
God’s  hand  and  look  full  in  the  face  of  His  creation,  and 
there  is  nothing  He  will  not  enable  you  to  achieve. 

Thus,  then,  you  will  find — and  the  more  profound  and 
accurate  your  knowledge  of  the  history  of  art  the  more 
assuredly  you  will  find — that  the  living  power  in  all  the 
real  schools,  be  they  great  or  small,  is  love  of  nature.  But 
do  not  mistake  me  by  supposing  that  I mean  this  law  to  be 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  AET. 


43 


all  that  is  necessary  to  form  a school.  There  needs  to  be 
much  superadded  to  it,  though  there  never  must  be  any- 
thing superseding  it.  The  main  thing  which  needs  to  be 
superadded  is  the  gift  of  design. 

It  is  always  dangerous,  and  liable  to  diminish  the  clear- 
ness of  impression,  to  go  over  much  ground  in  the  course 
of  one  lecture.  But  I dare  not  present  you  with  a maimed 
view  of  this  important  subject:  I dare  not  put  off*  to 
another  time,  when  the  same  persons  would  not  be  again 
assembled,  the  statement  of  the  great  collateral  necessity 
which,  as  well  as  the  necessity  of  truth,  governs  all  noble 
art. 

That  collateral  necessity  is  the  visible  operation  of  human 
intellect  in  the  presentation  of  truth , the  evidence  of  what  is 
properly  called  design  or  plan  in  the  work,  no  less  than  of 
veracity.  A looking-glass  does  not  design — -it  receives  and 
communicates  indiscriminately  all  that  passes  before  it ; a 
painter  designs  when  he  chooses  some  things,  refuses  others, 
and  arranges  all. 

This  selection  and  arrangement  must  have  influence  over 
everything  that  the  art  is  concerned  with,  great  or  small — 
over  lines,  over  colours,  and  over  ideas.  Given  a certain 
group  of  colours,  by  adding  another  colour  at  the  side  of 
them,  you  will  either  improve  the  group  and  render  it 
more  delightful,  or  injure  it,  and  render  it  discordant  and 
unintelligible.  “Design  57  is  the  choosing  and  placing  the 
colour  so  as  to  help  and  enhance  all  the  other  colours  it  is  set 


44 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


beside.  So  of  thoughts : in  a good  composition,  every  idea 
is  presented  in  just  that  order,  and  with  just  that  force, 
which  will  perfectly  connect  it  with  all  the  other  thoughts 
in  the  work,  and  will  illustrate  the  others  as  well  as  receive 
illustration  from  them  ; so  that  the  entire  chain  of  thoughts 
offered  to  the  beholder’s  mind  shall  be  received  by  him 
with  as  much  delight  and  with  as  little  effort  as  is  possible. 
And  thus  you  see  design,  properly  so  called,  is  human  in- 
vention, consulting  human  capacity.  Out  of  the  infinite  heap 
of  things  around  us  in  the  world,  it  chooses  a certain 
number  which  it  can  thoroughly  grasp,  and  presents  this 
group  to  the  spectator  in  the  form  best  calculated  to  enable 
him  to  grasp  it  also,  and  to  grasp  it  with  delight. 

And  accordingly,  the  capacities  of  both  gatherer  and 
receiver  being  limited,  the  object  is  to  make  everything  that 
you  offer  helpful  and  precious.  If  you  give  one  grain  of 
weight  too  much,  so  as  to  increase  fatigue  without  profit,  or 
bulk  without  value — that  added  grain  is  hurtful;  if  you 
put  one  spot  or  one  syllable  out  of  its  proper  place,  that 
spot  or  syllable  will  be  destructive — how  far  destructive  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  tell : a misplaced  touch  may  some- 
times annihilate  the  labour  of  hours.  Nor  are  any  of  us 
^prepared  to  understand  the  work  of  any  great  master,  till 
we  feel  this,  and  feel  it  as  distinctly  as  we  do  the  value  of 
arrangement  in  the  notes  of  music.  Take  any  noble  musi- 
cal air,  and  you  find,  on  examining  it,  that  not  one  even  of 
the  faintest  or  shortest  notes  can  be  removed  without 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


45 


destruction  to  the  whole  passage  in  which  it  occurs ; and 
that  every  note  in  the  passage  is  twenty  times  more  beauti- 
ful so  introduced,  than  it  would  have  been  if  played  singly 
on  the  instrument.  Precisely  this  degree  of  arrangement  and 
relation  must  exist  between  every  touch*  and  line  in  a great 
picture.  You  may  consider  the  whole  as  a prolonged  musi- 
cal composition  : its  parts,  as  separate  airs  connected  in  the 
story ; its  little  bits  and  fragments  of  colour  and  line,  as 
separate  passages  or  bars  in  melodies ; and  down  to  the  mi- 
nutest note  of  the  whole — down  to  the  minutest  touch , — if 
there  is  one  that  can  be  spared — that  one  is  doing  mischief. 

Remember  therefore  always,  you  have  two  characters  in 
which  all  greatness  of  art  consists : — First,  the  earnest  and 
intense  seizing  of  natural  facts;  then  the  ordering  those 
facts  by  strength  of  human  intellect,  so  as  to  make  them, 
for  all  who  look  upon  them,  to  the  utmost  serviceable,  me- 
morable, and  beautiful.  And  thus  great  art  is  nothing  else 
than  the  type  of  strong  and  noble  life;  for,  as  the  igno- 
ble person,  in  his  dealings  with  all  that  occurs  in  the  world 
about  him,  first  sees  nothing  clearly,- — looks  nothing  fairly 
in  the  face,  and  then  allows  himself  to  be  swept  away  by 
the  trampling  torrent,  and  unescapable  force,  of  the  things 
that  he  would  not  foresee,  and  could  not  understand : so 
the  noble  person,  looking  the  facts  of  the  world  full  in  the 
face,  and  fathoming  them  with  deep  faculty,  then  deals 

* Literally.  I know  how  exaggerated  this  statement  sounds ; but  I 
mean  it,— every  syllable  of  it. — See  Appendix  IV. 


46 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


with,  them  in  unalarmed  intelligence  and  unhurried  strength, 
and  becomes,  with  his  human  intellect  and  will,  no  un- 
conscious nor  insignificant  agent,  in  consummating  their 
good,  and  restraining  their  evil. 

Thus  in  human  life  you  have  the  two  fields  of  rightful 
toil  for  ever  distinguished,  yet  for  ever  associated ; Truth 
first — plan  or  design,  founded  thereon ; so  in  art,  you  have 
the  same  two  fields  for  ever  distinguished,  for  ever  asso 
ciated ; Truth  first — plan,  or  design,  founded  thereon. 

Now  hitherto  there  is  not  the  least  difficulty  in  the 
subject ; none  of  you  can  look  for  a moment  at  any  great 
sculptor  or  painter  without  seeing  the  full  bearing  of  these 
principles.  But  a difficulty  arises  when  you  come  to  exa- 
mine the  art  of  a lower  order,  concerned  with  furniture 
and  manufacture,  for  in  that  art  the  element  of  design 
enters  without,  apparently,  the  element  of  truth.  You 
have  often  to  obtain  beauty  and  display  invention  without 
direct  representation  of  nature.  Yet,  respecting  all  these 
things  also,  the  principle  is  perfectly  simple.  If  the 
designer  of  furniture,  of  cups  and  vases,  of  dress  patterns, 
and  the  like,  exercises  himself  continually  in  the  imitation 
of  natural  form  in  some  leading  division  of  his  work;  then, 
holding  by  this  stem  of  life,  he  may  pass  down  into  all 
kinds  of  merely  geometrical  or  formal  design  with  perfect 
safety,  and  with  noble  results.*  Thus  Giotto,  being  prima- 

* This  principle,  here  cursorily  stated,  is  one  of  the  chief  subjects  of 
inquiry  in  the  following  Lectures. 


LECT.  T.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


47 


rily  a figure  painter  and  sculptor,  is,  secondarily,  the  richest 
of  all  designers  in  mere  mosaic  of  coloured  bars  and  triangles ; ' 
thus  Benvenuto  Cellini,  being  in  all  the  higher  branches  of 
metal  work  a perfect  imitator  of  nature,  is  in  all  its  lower 
branches  the  best  designer  of  curve  for  lips  of  cups  and 
handles  of  vases;  thus  Holbein,  exercised  primarily  in  the 
noble  art  of  truthful  portraiture,  becomes,  secondarily,  the 
most  exquisite  designer  of  embroideries  of  robe,  and 
blazonries  on  wall;  and  thus  Michael  Angelo,  exercised 
primarily  in  the  drawing  of  body  and  limb,  distributes  in 
the  mightiest  masses  the  order  of  his  pillars,  and  in  the 
loftiest  shadow  the  hollows  of  his  dome.  But  once  quit 
hold  of  this  living  stem,  and  set  yourself  to  the  designing 
of  ornamentation,  either  in  the  ignorant  play  of  your  own 
heartless  fancy,  as  the  Indian  does,  or  according  to  received 
application  of  heartless  laws,  as  the  modern  European  does, 
and  there  is  but  one  word  for  you— Death : — death  of 
every  healthy  faculty,  and  of  every  noble  intelligence, 
incapacity  of  understanding  one  great  work  that  man  has 
ever  done,  or  of  doing  anything  that  it  shall  be  helpful  for 
him  to  behold.  You  have  cut  yourselves  off  voluntarily, 
presumptuously,  insolently,  from  the  whole  teaching  of 
your  Maker  in  His  Universe ; you  have  cut  yourselves  off 
from  it,  not  because  you  were  forced  to  mechanical  labour 
for  your  bread- — not  because  your  fate  had  appointed  you 
to  wear  away  your  life  in  walled  chambers,  or  dig  your  life 
out  of  dusty  furrows ; but,  when  your  whole  profession, 


48 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  L 


your  whole  occupation — all  the  necessities  and  chances  of 
your  existence,  led  you  straight  to  the  feet  of  the  great 
Teacher,  and  thrust  you  into  the  treasury  of  His  works ; 
where  you  have  nothing  to  do  hut  to  live  by  gazing,  and 
to  grow  by  wondering; — wilfully  you  bind  up  your  eyes 
from  the  splendour — wilfully  bind  up  your  life-blood  from 
its  beating — wilfully  turn  your  backs  upon  all  the  majes- 
ties of  Omnipotence — wilfully  snatch  your  hands  from  all 
the  aids  of  love ; and  what  can  remain  for  you,  but  help- 
lessness and  blindness, — except  the  worse  fate  than  the 
being  blind  yourselves — that  of  becoming  Leaders  of  the 
blind  ? 

Do  not  think  that  I am  speaking  under  excited  feeling, 
or  in  any  exaggerated  terms.  I have  written  the  words 
I use,  that  I may  know  wThat  I say,  and  that  you,  if  you 
choose,  may  see  what  I have  said.  For,  indeed,  I have  set 
before  you  to-night,  to  the  best  of  my  power,  the  sum  and 
substance  of  the  system  of  art  to  the  promulgation  of  which 
I have  devoted  my  life  hitherto,  and  intend  to  devote  what 
of  life  may  still  be  spared  to  me.  I have  had  but  one 
steady  aim  in  all  that  I have  ever  tried  to  teach,  namely — 
to  declare  that  whatever  was  great  in  human  art  was  the 
expression  of  man’s  delight  in  God’s  work. 

And  at  this  time  I have  endeavoured  to  prove  to  you — if 
you  investigate  the  subject  you  may  more  entirely  prove  to 
yourselves — that  no  school  ever  advanced  far  which  had 
not  the  love  of  natural  fact  as  a primal  energy.  But  it  is 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


49 


still  more  important  for  yon  to  be  assured  that  the  con- 
ditions of  life  and  death  in  the  art  of  nations  are  also  the 
conditions  of  life  and  death  in  your  own ; and  that  you 
have  it,  each  in  his  power  at  this  very  instant,  to  determine 
in  which  direction  his  steps  are  turning.  It  seems  almost  a 
terrible  thing  to  tell  you,  that  all  here  have  all  the  power 
of  knowing  at  once  what  hope  there  is  for  them  as  artists ; 
you  would,  perhaps,  like  better  that  there  was  some  unre- 
movable doubt  about  the  chances  of  the  future — some  pos- 
sibility that  you  might  be  advancing,  in  unconscious  ways, 
towards  unexpected  successes — some  excuse  or  reason  for 
going  about,  as  students  do  so  often,  to  this  master  or  the 
other,  asking  him  if  they  have  genius,  and  whether  they 
are  doing  right,  and  gathering,  from  his  careless  or  formal 
replies,  vague  flashes  of  encouragement,  or  fitfulnesses  of 
despair.  There  is  no  need  for  this — no  excuse  for  it.  All 
of  you  have  the  trial  of  yourselves  in  your  own  power ; 
each  may  undergo  at  this  instant,  before  his  own  judgment 
seat,  the  ordeal  by  fire.  Ask  yourselves  what  is  the  lead- 
ing motive  which  actuates  you  while  you  are  at  work.  I 
do  not  ask  you  what  your  leading  motive  is  for  working — 
that  is  a different  thing ; you  may  have  families  to  support 
— parents  to  help — brides  to  win  ; you  may  have  all  these, 
or  other  such  sacred  and  pre-eminent  motives,  to  press  the 
morning’s  labour  and  prompt  the  twilight  thought.  But 
when  you  are  fairly  at  the  work,  what  is  the  motive  then 
which  tells  upon  every  touch  of  it  ? If  it  is  the  love  of  that 

3 


50 


DETERIORATIVE  POWER  OF 


[LECT.  I. 


which,  your  work  represents — if,  being  a landscape  painter, 
it  is  love  of  hills  and  trees  that  moves  you — if,  being  a 
figure  painter,  it  is  love  of  human  beauty  and  human  soul 
that  moves  you — if,  being  a flower  or  animal  painter,  it  is 
love,  and  wonder,  and  delight  in  petal  and  in  limb  that 
move  you,  then  the  Spirit  is  upon  you,  and  the  earth  is 
yours,  and  the  fulness  thereof.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
is  petty  self-complacency  in  your  own  skill,  trust  in  precepts 
and  laws,  hope  for  academical  or  popular  approbation,  or 
avarice  of  wealth, — it  is  quite  possible  that  by  steady  indus- 
try, or  even  by  fortunate  chance,  you  may  win  the  applause, 
the  position,  the  fortune,  that  you  desire ; — but  one  touch 
of  true  art  you  will  never  lay  on  canvas  or  on  stone  as 
long  as  you  live. 

Make,  then,  your  choice,  boldly  and  consciously,  for  one 
way  or  other  it  must  be  made.  On  the  dark  and  dangerous 
side  are  set,  the  pride  which  delights  in  self-contemplation — 
the  indolence  which  rests  in  unquestioned  forms — the  igno- 
rance that  despises  what  is  fairest  among  God’s  creatures, 
and  the  dulness  that  denies  what  is  marvellous  in  His  work- 
ing : there  is  a life  of  monotony  for  your  own  souls,  and  of 
misguiding  for  those  of  others.  And,  on  the  other  side,  is 
open  to  your  choice  the  life  of  the  crowned  spirit,  moving 
as  a light  in  creation — discovering  always — illuminating 
always,  gaining  every  hour  in  strength,  yet  bowed  down 
every  hour  into  deeper  humility ; sure  of  being  right  in  its 
aim,  sure  of  being  irresistible  in  its  progress ; happy  in 


LECT.  I.] 


CONVENTIONAL  ART. 


51 


what  it  has  securely  done — happier  in  what,  day  by  day,  it 
may  as  securely  hope ; happiest  at  the  close  of  life,  when 
the  right  hand  begins  to  forget  its  cunning,  to  remember, 
that  there  never  was  a touch  of  the  chisel  or  the  pencil  it 
wielded,  but  has  added  to  the  knowledge  and  quickened 
the  happiness  of  mankind. 


LECTURE  II. 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 

Part  of  an  Address*  delivered  at  Manchester , 14 th  March , 1859. 

It  is  sometimes  my  pleasant  duty  to  visit  other  cities,  in 
the  hope  of  being  able  to  encourage  their  art  students  ; but 
here  it  is  my  pleasanter  privilege  to  come  for  encourage- 
ment mvself.  I do  not  know  when  I have  received  so 
much  as  from  the  report  read  this  evening  by  Mr.  Hammers- 
ley,  bearing  upon  a subject  which  has  caused  me  great 
anxiety.  For  I have  always  felt  in  my  own  pursuit  of  art, 
and  in  my  endeavours  to  urge  the  pursuit  of  art  on  others, 
that  while  there  are  many  advantages  now  that  never 
existed  before,  there  are  certain  grievous  difficulties  exist- 

* I was  prevented,  by  press  of  other  engagements,  from  preparing 
this  address  with  the  care  I wished ; and  forced  to  trust  to  such  expres- 
sion as  I could  give  at  the  moment  to  the  points  of  principal  import- 
ance ; reading,  however,  the  close  of  the  preceding  lecture,  which  I 
thought  contained  some  truths  that  would  bear  repetition.  The  whole 
was  reported,  better  than  it  deserved,  by  Mr.  Pitman,  of  the  Manches- 
ter Courier , and  published  nearly  verbatim.  I have  here  extracted, 
from  the  published  report,  the  facts  which  I wish  especially  to  enforce ; 
and  have  a little  cleared  their  expression;  its  loose  and  colloquial 
character  I cannot  now  help,  unless  by  re-writing  the  whole,  which  it 
seems  not  worth  while  to  do. 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


58 


ing,  just  in  the  very  cause  that  is  giving  the  stimulus  to 
art — in  the  immense  spread  of  the  manufactures  of  every 
country  which  is  now  attending  vigorously  to  art.  We 
find  that  manufacture  and  art  are  now  going  on  always 
together ; that  where  there  is  no  manufacture  there  is  no 
art.  I know  how  much  there  is  of  pretended  art  where 
there  is  no  manufacture:  there  is  much  in  Italy,  for 
instance ; no  country  makes  so  bold  pretence  to  the  pro- 
duction of  new  art  as  Italy  at  this  moment ; yet  no  country 
produces  so  little.  If  you  glance  over  the  map  of  Europe, 
you  will  find  that  where  the  manufactures  are  strongest, 
there  art  also  is  strongest.  And  yet  I always  felt  that  there 
was  an  immense  difficulty  to  be  encountered  by  the  students 
who  were  in  these  centres  of  modern  movement.  They 
had  to  avoid  the  notion  that  art  and  manufacture  were  in 
any  respect  one.  Art  may  be  healthily  associated  with 
manufacture,  and  probably  in  future  will  always  be  so ; but 
the  student  must  be  strenuously  warned  against  supposing 
that  they  can  ever  be  one  and  the  same  thing,  that  art  can 
ever  be  followed  on  the  principles  of  manufacture.  Each 
must  be  followed  separately ; the  one  must  influence  the  other, 
but  each  must  be  kept  distinctly  separate  from  the  other. 

It  would  be  well  if  all  students  would  keep  clearly  in 
their  mind  the  real  distinction  between  those  words  which 
we  use  so  often,  u Manufacture,”  “ Art,”  and  “ Fine  Art.” 
“ Manufacture”  is,  according  to  the  etymology  and  right 
use  of  the  word,  “ the  making  of  anything  by  hands,” — 


54 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


[LECT.  II. 


directly  or  indirectly,  with  or  without  the  help  of  instru- 
ments or  machines.  Anything  proceeding  from  the  hand 
of  man  is  manufacture ; but  it  must  have  proceeded  from 
his  hand  only,  acting  mechanically,  and  uninfluenced  at 
the  moment  by  direct  intelligence. 

Then,  secondly,  Art  is  the  operation  of  the  hand  and 
the  intelligence  of  man  together:  there  is  an  art  of  making 
machinery ; there  is  an  art  of  building  ships ; an  art  of 
making  carriages;  and  so  on.  All  these,  properly  called 
Arts,  but  not  Fine  Arts,  are  pursuits  in  which  the  hand  of 
man  and  his  head  go  together,  working  at  the  same  instant. 

Then  Fine  Art  is  that  in  which  the  hand,  the  head,  and 
the  heart  of  man  go  together. 

Recollect  this  triple  group;  it  will  help  you  to  solve 
many  difficult  problems.  And  remember  that  though  the 
hand  must  be  at  the  bottom  of  everything,  it  must  also  go 
to  the  top  of  everything ; for  Fine  Art  must  be  produced 
by  the  hand  of  man  in  a much  greater  and  clearer  sense 
than  manufacture  is.  Fine  Art  must  always  be  produced 
by  the  subtlest  of  all  machines,  which  is  the  human  hand. 
No  machine  yet  contrived,  or  hereafter  contrivable,  will 
ever  equal  the  fine  machinery  of  the  human  fingers. 
Thoroughly  perfect  art  is  that  which  proceeds  from  the 
he.irt,  which  involves  all  the  noble  emotions; — associates 
with  these  the  head,  yet  as  inferior  to  the  heart;  and  the 
hand,  yet  as  inferior  to  the  heart  and  head ; and  thus  brings 
out  the  whole  man. 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


55 


Hence  it  follows  that  since  Manufacture  is  simply  the 
operation  of  the  hand  of  man  in  producing  that  which  is 
useful  to  him,  it  essentially  separates  itself  from  the  emo- 
tions ; when  emotions  interfere  with  machinery  they  spoil  it : 
machinery  must  go  evenly,  without  emotion.  But  the  Fine 
Arts  cannot  go  evenly ; they  always  must  have  emotion 
ruling  their  mechanism,  and  until  the  pupil  begins  to  feel, 
and  until  all  he  does  associates  itself  with  the  current  of  his 
feeling,  he  is  not  an  artist.  But  pupils  in  all  the  schools  in 
this  country  are  now  exposed  to  all  kinds  of  temptations 
which  blunt  their  feelings.  I constantly  feel  discouraged 
in  addressing  them  because  I know  not  how  to  tell  them 
boldly  what  they  ought  to  do,  when  I feel  how  practically 
difficult  it  is  for  them  to  do  it.  There  are  all  sorts  of 
demands  made  upon  them  in  every  direction,  and  money  is 
to  be  made  in  every  conceivable  way  but  the  right  way. 
If  you  paint  as  you  ought,  and  study  as  you  ought,  depend 
upon  it  the  public  will  take  no  notice  of  you  for  a long 
while.  If  you  study  wrongly,  and  try  to  draw  the  atten- 
tion of  the  public  upon  you, — supposing  you  to  be  clever 
students — you  will  get  swift  reward  ; but  the  reward  does 
not  come  fast  when  it  is  sought  wisely ; it  is  always  held 
aloof  for  a little  while ; the  right  roads  of  early  life  are  very 
quiet  ones,  hedged  in  from  nearly  all  help  or  praise.  But 
the  wrong  roads  are  noisy, — vociferous  everywhere  with  all 
kinds  of  demand  upon  you  for  art  which  is  not  properly 
art  at  all ; and  in  the  various  meetings  of  modern  interests, 


56 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


[LECT.  II. 


money  is  to  be  made  in  every  way ; but  art  is  to  be  followed 
only  in  one  way.  That  is  what  I want  mainly  to  say  to 
you,  or  if  not  to  you  yourselves  (for,  from  what  I have 
heard  from  your  excellent  master  to  night,  I know  you  are 
going  on  all  rightly),  you  must  let  me  say  it  through  you 
to  others.  Our  Schools  of  Art  are  confused  by  the  various 
teaching  and  various  interests  that  are  now  abroad  among 
us.  Everybody  is  talking  about  art,  and  writing  about  it, 
and  more  or  less  interested  in  it ; everybody  wants  art,  and 
there  is  not  art  for  everybody,  and  few  who  talk  know  what 
they  are  talking  about ; thus  students  are  led  in  all  variable 
ways,  while  there  is  only  one  way  in  which  they  can  make 
steady  progress,  for  true  art  is  always  and  will  be  always 
one.  Whatever  changes  may  be  made  in  the  customs  of 
society,  whatever  new  machines  we  may  invent,  whatever 
new  manufactures  we  may  supply,  Fine  Art  must  remain 
what  it  was  two  thousand  years  ago,  in  the  days  of  Phidias; 
two  thousand  years  hence,  it  will  be,  in  all  its  principles, 
and  in  all  its  great  effects  upon  the  mind  of  man,  just  the 
same.  Observe  this  that  I say,  please,  carefully,  for  I mean 
it  to  the  very  utmost.  There  is  but  one  right  way  of  doing  any 
given  thing  reguired  of  an  artist;  there  may  be  a hundred 
wrong,  deficient,  or  mannered  ways,  but  there  is  only  one 
complete  and  right  way.  Whenever  two  artists  are  trying 
to  do  the  same  thing  with  the  same  materials,  and  do  it  in 
different  ways,  one  of  them  is  wrong ; he  may  be  charm- 
ingly wrong,  or  impressively  wrong — various  circumstances 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


57 


in  his  temper  may  make  his  wrong  pleasanter  than  any  per- 
son’s right;  it  may  for  him,  under  his  given  limitations  of 
knowledge  or  temper,  be  better  perhaps  that  he  should  err 
in  his  own  way  than  try  for  anybody  else’s — but  for  all 
that  his  way  is  wrong,  and  it  is  essential  for  all  masters  of 
schools  to  know  what  the  right  way  is,  and  what  right  art 
is,  and  to  see  how  simple  and  how  single  all  right  art  has 
been,  since  the  beginning  of  it. 

But  farther,  not  only  is  there  but  one  way  of  doing 
things  rightly,  but  there  is  only  one  way  of  seeing  them, 
and  that  is,  seeing  the  whole  of  them,  without  any  choice, 
or  more  intense  perception  of  one  point  than  another,  ow- 
ing to  our  special  idiosyncrasies.  Thus,  when  Titian  or 
Tintoret  look  at  a human  being,  they  see  at  a glance  the 
whole  of  its  nature,  outside  and  in ; all  that  it  has  of  form, 
of  colour,  of  passion,  or  of  thought ; saintliness,  and  love- 
liness ; fleshly  body,  and  spiritual  power ; grace,  or  strength, 
or  softness,  or  whatsoever  other  quality,  those  men  will  see 
to  the  full,  and  so  paint,  that,  when  narrower  people  come 
to  look  at  what  they  have  done,  every  one  may,  if  he 
chooses,  find  his  own  special  pleasure  in  the  work.  The 
sensualist  will  find  sensuality  in  Titian  ; the  thinker  will 
find  thought ; the  saint,  sanctity ; the  colourist,  colour ; the 
anatomist,  form  ; and  yet  the  picture  will  never  be  a popu- 
lar one  in  the  full  sense,  for  none  of  these  narrower  people 
will  find  their  special  taste  so  alone  consulted,  as  that  the 

qualities  which  would  easure  their  gratification  shall  be 

3* 


58 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


[LECT.  II. 


sifted  or  separated  from  others ; they  are  checked  by  the 
presence  of  the  other  qualities  which  ensure  the  gratifica- 
tion of  other  men.  Thus,  Titian  is  not  soft  enough  for  the 
sensualist,  Correggio  suits  him  better ; Titian  is  not  defined 
enough  for  the  formalist, — Leonardo  suits  him  better ; Ti- 
tian is  not  pure  enough  for  the  religionist, — Raphael  suits 
him  better ; Titian  is  not  polite  enough  for  the  man  of  the 
world, — Vandyke  suits  him  better;  Titian  is  not  forcible 
enough  for  the  lovers  of  the  picturesque, — Rembrandt  suits 
him  better.  So  Correggio  is  popular  with  a certain  set,  and 
Vandyke  with  a certain  set,  and  Rembrandt  with  a certain 
set.  All  are  great  men,  but  of  inferior  stamp,  and  therefore 
Vandyke  is  popular,  and  Rembrandt  is  popular,*  but  nobody 
cares  much  at  heart  about  Titian ; only  there  is  a strange 
under-current  of  everlasting  murmur  about  his  name,  which 
means  the  deep  consent  of  all  great  men  that  he  is  greater 
than  they — the  consent  of  those  who,  having  sat  long 
enough  at  his  feet,  have  found  in  that  restrained  harmony  of 
his  strength  there  are  indeed  depths  of  each  balanced  power 
more  wonderful  than  all  those  separate  manifestations  in 
inferior  painters:  that  there  is  a softness  more  exquisite 
than  Correggio’s,  a purity  loftier  than  Leonardo’s,  a force 
mightier  than  Rembrandt’s,  a sanctity  more  solemn  even 
than  Raffaelle’s. 

Do  not  suppose  that  in  saying  this  of  Titian,  I am  return- 

* And  Murillo,  of  all  true  painters  the  narrowest,  feeblest,  and  most 
superficial,  for  those  reasons  the  most  popular. 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


59 


ing  to  the  old  eclectic  theories  of  Bologna;  for  all  those 
eclectic  theories,  observe,  were  based,  not  upon  an  endeavour 
to  unite  the  various  characters  of  nature  (which  it  is  possi- 
ble to  do),  but  the  various  narrownesses  of  taste,  which  it 
is  impossible  to  do.  Rubens  is  not  more  vigorous  than 
Titian,  but  less  vigorous;  but  because  he  is  so  narrow- 
minded as  to  enjoy  vigour  only,  he  refuses  to  give  the  other 
qualities  of  nature,  which  would  interfere  with  that  vigour 
and  with  our  perception  of  it.  Again,  Rembrandt  is  not  a 
greater  master  of  chiaroscuro  than  Titian ; — he  is  a less 
master,  but  because  he  is  so  narrow-minded  as  to  enjoy 
chiaroscuro  only,  he  withdraws  from  you  the  splendour  of 
hue  which  would  interfere  with  this,  and  gives  you  only 
the  shadow  in  which  you  can  at  once  feel  it.  Now  all 
these  specialties  have  their  own  charm  in  their  own  way ; 
and  there  are  times  when  the  particular  humour  of  each 
man  is  refreshing  to  us  from  its  very  distinctness ; but  the 
effort  to  add  any  other  qualities  to  this  refreshing  one 
instantly  takes  away  the  distinctiveness,  and  therefore  the 
exact  character  to  be  enjoyed  in  its  appeal  to  a particular 
humour  in  us.  Our  enjoyment  arose  from  a weakness 
meeting  a weakness,  from  a partiality  in  the  painter  fitting 
to  a,  partiality  in  us,  and  giving  us  sugar  when  we  wanted 
sugar,  and  myrrh  when  we  wanted  myrrh ; but  sugar  and 
myrrh  are  not  meat : and  when  we  want  meat  and  bread, 
we  must  go  to  better  men. 

The  eclectic  schools  endeavoured  to  unite  these  opposite 


60 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


[LECT.  II. 


partialities  and  weaknesses.  They  trained  themselves  un- 
der masters  of  exaggeration,  and  tried  to  unite  opposite  ex- 
aggerations. That  was  impossible.  They  did  not  see  that 
the  only  possible  eclecticism  had  been  already  accomplish- 
ed;— the  eclecticism  of  temperance,  which,  by  the  restraint 
of  force,  gains  higher  force ; and  by  the  self-denial  of  de- 
light, gains  higher  delight.  This  you  will  find  is  ultimate- 
ly the  case  with  every  true  and  right  master  ; at  first,  while 
we  are  tyros  in  art,  or  before  we  have  earnestly  studied  the 
man  in  question,  we  shall  sCe  little  in  him ; or  perhaps  see, 
as  we  think,  deficiencies ; we  shall  fancy  he  is  inferior  to 
this  man  in  that,  and  to  the  other  man  in  the  other ; but 
as  we  go  on  studying  him  we  shall  find  that  he  has  got  both 
that  and  the  other;  and  both  in  a far  higher  sense  than  the 
man  who  seemed  to  possess  those  qualities  in  excess.  Thus 
in  Turner’s  lifetime,  when  people  first  looked  at  him,  those 
who  liked  rainy  weather,  said  he  was  not  equal  to  Copley 
Fielding ; but  those  who  looked  at  Turner  long  enough 
found  that  he  could  be  much  more  wet  than  Copley  Field- 
ing, when  he  chose.  The  people  who  liked  force,  said  that 
“ Turner  was  not  strong  enough  for  them ; he  was  effemi- 
nate; they  liked  De  Wint, — nice  strong  tone; — or  Cox — 
great,  greeny,  dark  masses  of  colour — solemn  feeling  of 
the  freshness  and  depth  of  nature;— they  liked  Cox — 
Turner  was  too  hot  for  them.”  Had  they  looked  long 
enough  they  would  have  found  that  he  had  far  more  force 
than  De  Wint,  far  more  freshness  than  Cox  when  he 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


61 


chose, — only  united  with  other  elements ; and  that  he  didn’t 
choose  to  be  cool,  if  nature  had  appointed  the  weather  to 
be  hot.  The  people  who  liked  Prout  said  u Turner  had 
not  firmness  of  hand — he  did  not  know  enough  about  ar- 
chitecture— -he  was  not  picturesque  enough.”  Had  they 
looked  at  his  architecture  long,  they  would  have  found  that 
it  contained  subtle  picturesquenesses,  infinitely  more  pictur- 
esque than  anything  of  Prout’s.  People  who  liked  Callcott 
said  that  “ Turner  was  not  correct  or  pure  enough — had  no 
classical  taste.”  Had  they  looked  at  Turner  long  enough 
they  would  have  found  him  as  severe,  when  he  chose,  as 
the  greater  Poussin ; — Callcott,  a mere  vulgar  imitator  of 
other  men’s  high  breeding.  And  so  throughout  with  all 
thoroughly  great  men,  their  strength  is  not  seen  at  first, 
precisely  because  they  unite,  in  due  place  and  measure, 
every  great  quality. 

How  the  question  is,  whether,  as  students,  we  are  to 
study  only  these  mightiest  men,  who  unite  all  greatness,  or 
whether  we  are  to  study  the  works  of  inferior  men,  who 
present  us  with  the  greatness  which  we  particular^  like  ? 
That  question  often  comes  before  me  when  I see  a strong 
idiosyncrasy  in  a student,  and  he  asks  me  what  he  should 
study.  Shall  I send  him  to  a true  master,  who  does  not 
present  the  quality  in  a prominent  way  in  which  that  stu- 
dent delights,  or  send  him  to  a man  with  whom  he  has 
direct  sympathy  ? It  is  a hard  question.  For  very  curious 
results  have  sometimes  been  brought  out,  especially  in  late 


62 


THE  UNITY  OF  AKT. 


[LECT.  II. 


years,  not  only  by  students  following  their  own  bent,  but 
by  their  being  withdrawn  from  teaching  altogether.  I have 
just  named  a very  great  man  in  his  own  field — Prout.  We 
all  know  his  drawings,  and  love  them : they  have  a pecu- 
liar character  which  no  other  architectural  drawings  ever 
possessed,  and  which  no  others  can  possess,  because  all 
Prout’s  subjects  are  being  knocked  down  or  restored. 
(Prout  did  not  like  restored  buildings  any  more  than  I do.) 
There  will  never  be  any  more  Prout  drawings.  Nor  could 
he  have  been  what  he  was,  or  expressed  with  that  myste- 
riously effective  touch  that  peculiar  delight  in  broken  and 
old  buildings,  unless  he  had  been  withdrawn  from  all  high 
art  influence.  You  know  that  Prout  was  bom  of  poor 
parents — that  he  was  educated  down  in  Cornwall; — and 
that,  for  many  years,  all  the  art-teaching  he  had  was  his 
own,  or  the  fishermen’s.  Under  the  keels  of  the  fishing- 
boats,  on  the  sands  of  our  southern  coasts,  Prout  learned 
all  that  he  needed  to  learn  about  art.  Entirely  by  himself, 
he  felt  his  way  to  this  particular  style,  and  became  the 
painter  of  pictures  which  I think  we  should  all  regret  to  lose. 
It  becomes  a very  difficult  question  what  that  man  would 
have  been,  had  he  been  brought  under  some  entirely  whole- 
some artistic  influence.  He  had  immense  gifts  of  composi- 
tion. I do  not  know  any  man  who  had  more  power  of 
invention  than  Prout,  or  who  had  a sublimer  instinct  in 
his  treatment  of  things ; but  being  entirely  withdrawn  from 
all  artistical  help,  he  blunders  his  way  to  that  short-coming 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


63 


representation,  which,  by  the  very  reason  of  its  short- 
coming, has  a certain  charm  we  should  all  be  sorry  to  lose. 
And  therefore  I feel  embarrassed  when  a student  comes  to 
me,  in  whom  I see  a strong  instinct  of  that  kind : and 
cannot  tell  whether  I ought  to  say  to  him,  “ Give  up  all 
your  studies  of  old  boats,  and  keep  away  from  the  sea-shore, 
and  come  up  to  the  Eoyal  Academy  in  London,  and  look  at 
nothing  but  Titian.”  It  is  a difficult  thing  to  make  up  one’s 
mind  to  say  that.  However,  I believe,  on  the  whole,  we 
may  wisely  leave  such  matters  in  the  hands  of  Providence ; 
that  if  we  have  the  power  of  teaching  the  right  to  any- 
body, we  should  teach  them  the  right ; if  we  have  the  power 
of  showing  them  the  best  thing,  we  should  show  them  the 
best  thing;  there  will  always,  I fear,  be  enough  want  of 
teaching,  and  enough  bad  teaching,  to  bring  out  very  curi- 
ous erratical  results  if  we  want  them.  So,  if  we  are  to 
teach  at  all,  let  us  teach  the  right  thing,  and  ever  the  right 
thing.  There  are  many  attractive  qualities  inconsistent 
with  rightness  ; — do  not  let  us  teach  them, — let  us  be  con- 
tent to  waive  them.  There  are  attractive  qualities  in  Burns, 
and  attractive  qualities  in  Dickens,  which  neither  of  those 
writers  would  have  possessed  if  the  one  had  been  educated, 
and  the  other  had  been  studying  higher  nature  than  that  of 
cockney  London ; but  those  attractive  qualities  are  not  such 
as  we  should  seek  in  a school  of  literature.  If  we  want  to 
teach  young  men  a good  manner  of  writing,  we  should  teach 
it  from  Shakspeare, — not  from  Burns  ; from  Walter  Scott, 


64 


THE  UNITY  OF  AET. 


[LECT.  II. 


— and  not  from  Dickens.  And  I believe  that  our  schools 
of  painting  are  at  present  inefficient  in  their  action,  because 
they  have  not  fixed  on  this  high  principle  what  are  the 
painters  to  whom  to  point ; nor  boldly  resolved  to  point  to 
the  best,  if  determinable.  It  is  becoming  a matter  of  stem 
necessity  that  they  should  give  a simple  direction  to  the 
attention  of  the  student,  and  that  they  should  say,  “ This  is 
the  mark  you  are  to  aim  at;  and  you  are  not  to  go  about  to 
the  print-shops,  and  peep  in,  to  see  how  this  engraver  does 
that,  and  the  other  engraver  does  the  other,  and  how  a nice 
bit  of  character  has  been  caught  by  a new  man,  and  why  this 
odd  picture  has  caught  the  popular  attention.  You  are  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  all  that ; you  are  not  to  mind 
about  popular  attention  just  now ; but  here  is  a thing  which 
is  eternally  right  and  good : you  are  to  look  at  that,  and  see 
if  you  cannot  do  something  eternally  right  and  good  too.” 
But  suppose  you  accept  this  principle : and  resolve  to 
look  to  some  great  man,  Titian,  or  Turner,  or  whomsoever 
it  may  be,  as  the  model  of  perfection  in  art; — then  the 
question  is,  since  this  great  man  pursued  his  art  in  Venice, 
or  in  the  fields  of  England,  under  totally  different  condi- 
tions from  those  possible  to  us  now — how  are  you  to  make 
your  study  of  him  effective  here  in  Manchester  ? how  bring 
it  down  into  patterns,  and  all  that  you  are  called  upon  as 
operatives  to  produce  ? how  make  it  the  means  of  your  live- 
lihood, and  associate  inferior  branches  of  art  with  this  great 
art?  That  may  become  a serious  doubt  to  you.  You  may 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


65 


think  there  is  some  other  way  of  producing  clever,  and 
pretty,  and  saleable  patterns  than  going  to  look  at  Titian, 
or  any  other  great  man.  And  that  brings  me  to  the  ques: 
tion,  perhaps  the  most  vexed  question  of  all  amongst  us  just 
now,  between  conventional  and  perfect  art.  You  know 
that  among  architects  and  artists  there  are,  and  have  been 
almost  always,  since  art  became  a subject  of  much  discus- 
sion, two  parties,  one  maintaining  that  nature  should  be 
always  altered  and  modified,  and  that  the  artist  is  greater 
than  nature;  they  do  not  maintain,  indeed,  in  words,  but 
they  maintain  in  idea,  that  the  artist  is  greater  than  the 
Divine  Maker  of  these  things,  and  can  improve  them ; while 
the  other  party  say  that  he  cannot  improve  nature,  and  that 
nature  on  the  whole  should  improve  him.  That  is  the  real 
meaning  of  the  two  parties,  the  essence  of  them ; the  prac- 
tical result  of  their  several  theories  being  that  the  Idealists 
are  always  producing  more  or  less  formal  conditions  of  art, 
and  the  Realists  striving  to  produce  in  all  their  art  either 
some  image  of  nature,  or  record  of  nature ; these,  observe, 
being  quite  different  things,  the  image  being  a resemblance, 
and  the  record,  something  which  will  give  information 
about  nature,  but  not  necessarily  imitate  it. 

* * * * * 

You  may  separate  these  two  groups  of  artists  more  dis- 

* The  portion  of  the  lecture  here  omitted  was  a recapitulation 
of  that  part  of  the  previous  one  which  opposed  conventional  art  to 
natural  art. 


66 


THE  UNITY  OF  AET. 


[LECT.  II. 


tinctly  in  your  mind  as  those  who  seek  for  the  pleasure  of 
art,  in  the  relations  of  its  colours  and  lines,  without  caring 
to  convey  any  truth  with  it ; and  those  who  seek  for  the 
truth  first,  and  then  go  down  from  the  truth  to  the  pleasure 
of  colour  and  line.  Marking  those  two  bodies  distinctly  as 
separate,  and  thinking  over  them,  you  may  come  to  some 
rather  notable  conclusions  respecting  the  mental  disposi- 
tions which  are  involved  in  each  mode  of  study.  You  will 
find  that  large  masses  of  the  art  of  the  world  fall  definitely 
under  one  or  the  other  of  these  heads.  Observe,  pleasure 
first  and  truth  afterwards,  (or  not  at  all,)  as  with  the  Ara- 
bians and  Indians ; or,  truth  first  and  pleasure  afterwards, 
as  with  Angelico  and  all  other  great  European  painters. 
You  will  find  that  the  art  whose  end  is  pleasure  only  is  pre- 
eminently the  gift  of  cruel  and  savage  nations,  cruel  in  tem- 
per, savage  in  habits  and  conception ; but  that  the  art  which 
is  especially  dedicated  to  natural  fact  always  indicates  a 
peculiar  gentleness  and  tenderness  of  mind,  and  that  all 
great  and  successful  work  of  that  kind  will  assuredly  be 
the  production  of  thoughtful,  sensitive,  earnest,  kind  men, 
large  in  their  views  of  life,  and  full  of  various  intellectual 
power.  And  farther,  when  you  examine  the  men  in  whom 
the  gifts  of  art  are  variously  mingled,  or  universally 
mingled,  you  will  discern  that  the  ornamental,  or  pleasura- 
ble power,  though  it  may  be  possessed  by  good  men,  is  not 
in  itself  an  indication  of  their  goodness,  but  is  rather,  unless 
balanced  by  other  faculties,  indicative  of  violence  of  temper, 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


67 


inclining  to  cruelty  and  to  irreligion.  On  the  other  hand, 
so  sure  as  you  find  any  man  endowed  with  a keen  and 
separate  faculty  of  representing  natural  fact,  so  surely  you 
will  find  that  man  gentle  and  upright,  full  of  nobleness  and 
breadth  of  thought.  I will  give  you  two  instances,  the  first  pe- 
culiarly English,  and  another  peculiarly  interesting  because 
it  occurs  among  a nation  not  generally  very  kind  or  gentle. 

I am  inclined  to  think  that,  considering  all  the  disadvan- 
tages of  circumstances  and  education  under  which  his  genius 
was  developed,  there  was  perhaps  hardly  ever  born  a man 
with  a more  intense  and  innate  gift  of  insight  into  nature 
than  our  own  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  Considered  as  a 
painter  of  individuality  in  the  human  form  and  mind,  I 
think  him,  even  as  it  is,  the  prince  of  portrait  painters. 
Titian  paints  nobler  pictures,  and  Vandyke  had  nobler  sub- 
jects, but  neither  of  them  entered  so  subtly  as  Sir  Joshua 
did  into  the  minor  varieties  of  human  heart  and  temper ; 
and  when  you  consider  that,  with  a frightful  convention- 
ality of  social  habitude  all  around  him,  he  yet  conceived 
the  simplest  types  of  all  feminine  and  childish  loveliness ; — 
that  in  a northern  climate,  and  with  gray,  and  white,  and 
black,  as  the  principal  colours  around  him,  he  yet  became 
a colourist  who  can  be  crushed  by  none,  even  of  the  Vene- 
tians ; — and  that  with  Dutch  painting  and  Dresden  china 
for  the  prevailing  types  of  art  in  the  saloons  of  his  day,  he 
threw  himself  at  once  at  the  feet  of  the  great  masters  of 
Italy,  and  arose  from  their  feet  to  share  their  throne — I 


68 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


[LECT.  II. 


know  not  that  in  the  whole  history  of  art  you  can  produce 
another  instance  of  so  strong,  so  unaided,  so  unerring  an 
instinct  for  all  that  was  true,  pure,  and  noble. 

Now,  do  you  recollect  the  evidence  respecting  the  charac- 
ter of  this  man, — the  two  points  of  bright  peculiar  evidence 
given  by  the  sayings  of  the  two  greatest  literary  men  of  his 
day,  Johnson  and  Goldsmith?  Johnson,  who,  as  you 
know,  was  always  Reynolds7  attached  friend,  had  but  one 
complaint  to  make  against  him,  that  he  hated  nobody 
“ Reynolds,77  he  said,  “you  hate  no  one  living;  I like  a 
good  hater  !77  Still  more  significant  is  the  little  touch  in 
Goldsmith’s  “ Retaliation.77  You  recollect  how  in  that 
poem  he  describes  the  various  persons  who  met  at  one  of 
their  dinners  at  St.  James’s  Coffee-house,  each  person  being 
described  under  the  name  of  some  appropriate  dish.  You 
will  often  hear  the  concluding  lines  about  Reynolds  quoted — 

u He  shifted  his  trumpet,”  &c. ; — 

less  often,  or  at  least  less  attentively,  the  preceding  ones, 
far  more  important — 

“ Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part — 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart 

and  never,  the  most  characteristic  touch  of  all,  near  the 
beginning : — 

11  Our  dean  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains ; 

Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  a garnish  of  brains ; 

To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I am, 

That  Rich  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb .” 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


69 


The  other  painter  whom  I would  give  you  as  an  instance . 
of  this  gentleness  is  a man  of  another  nation,  on  the  whole  I 
suppose  one  of  the  most  cruel  civilized  nations  in  the  world, 
— the  Spaniards.  They  produced  but  one  great  painter, 
only  one;  but  he  among  the  very  greatest  of  painters,  Ve- 
lasquez. You  would  not  suppose,  from  looking  at  Velas- 
quez’ portraits  generally,  that  he  was  an  especially  kind  or 
good  man  ; you  perceive  a peculiar  sternness  about  them  ; 
for  they  were  as  true  as  steel,  and  the  persons  whom  he  had 
to  paint  being  not  generally  kind  or  good  people,  they  were 
stem  in  expression,  and  Velasquez  gave  the  sternness  ; but 
he  had  precisely  the  same  intense  perception  of  truth,  the 
same  marvellous  instinct  for  the  rendering  of  all  natural 
soul  and  all  natural  form  that  our  Reynolds  had.  Let  me, 
then,  read  you  his  character  as  it  is  given  by  Mr.  Stirling, 
of  Kier : — 

“Certain  charges,  of  what  nature  we  are  not  informed,  brought 
against  him  after  his  death,  made  it  necessary  for  his  executor,  Fuen- 
salida,  to  refute  them  at  a private  audience  granted  to  him  by  the  king 
for  that  purpose.  After  listening  to  the  defence  of  his  friend,  Philip 
immediately  made  answer : L I can  believe  all  you  say  of  the  excellent 
disposition  of  Diego  Velasquez.’  Having  lived  for  half  his  life  in  courts, 
he  was  yet  capable  both  of  gratitude  and  generosity,  and  in  the  misfor- 
tunes, he  could  remember  the  early  kindness  of  Olivares.  The  friend 
of  the  exile  of  Loeches,  it  is  just  to  believe  that  he  was  also  the  friend 
of  the  all-powerful  favourite  at  Buenretiro.  No  mean  jealousy  ever  in- 
fluenced his  conduct  to  his  brother  artists ; he  could  afford  not  only  to 
acknowledge  the  merits,  but  to  forgive  the  malice,  of  his  rivals.  His 


THE  UNITY  OF  AET. 


[LECT.  II. 


70 

character  was  of  that  rare  and  happy  hind , in  which  high  intellectual 
power  is  combined  with  indomitable  strength  of  will , and  a winning  sweet - 
ness  of  temper , and  which  seldom  fails  to  raise  the  possessor  above  his 
fellow-men,  making  his  life  a 

1 laurelled  victory,  and  smooth  success 
Be  strewed  before  his  feet/  ” 

I am  sometimes  accused  of  trying  to  make  art  too  moral ; 
yet,  observe,  I do  not  say  in  the  least  that  in  order  to  be  a 
good  painter  you  must  be  a good  man ; but  I do  say  that 
in  order  to  be  a good  natural  painter  there  must  be  strong 
elements  of  good  in  the  mind,  however  warped  by  other 
parts  of  the  character.  There  are  hundreds  of  other  gifts 
of  painting  which  are  not  at  all  involved  with  moral  condi- 
tions, but  this  one,  the  perception  of  nature,  is  never  given 
but  under  certain  moral  conditions.  Therefore,  now  you 
have  it  in  your  choice ; here  are  your  two  paths  for  you : it 
is  required  of  you  to  produce  conventional  ornament,  and 
you  may  approach  the  task  as  the  Hindoo  does,  and  as  the 
Arab  did,  without  nature  at  all,  with  the  chance  of 
approximating  your  disposition  somewhat  to  that  of  the 
Hindoos  and  Arabs ; or  as  Sir  Joshua  and  Yelasquez  did, 
with,  not  the  chance,  but  the  certainty,  of  approximating 
your  disposition,  according  to  the  sincerity  of  your  effort — 
to  the  disposition  of  those  great  and  good  men. 

And  do  you  suppose  you  will  lose  anything  by  ap- 
proaching your  conventional  art  from  this  higher  side? 
Not  so.  I called,  with  deliberate  measurement  of  my 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  AET. 


71 


expression,  long  ago,  the  decoration  of  the  Alhambra 
“detestable,”  not  merely  because  indicative  of  base  condi- 
tions of  moral  being,  but  because  merely  as  decorative 
work,  however  captivating  in  some  respects,  it  is  wholly 
wanting  in  the  real,  deep,  and  intense  qualities  of  orna- 
mental art.  Noble  conventional  decoration  belongs  only 
to  three  periods.  First,  there  is  the  conventional  decora- 
tion of  the  Greeks,  used  in  subordination  to  their  sculpture. 
There  are  then  the  noble  conventional  decoration  of  the 
early  Gothic  schools,  and  the  noble  conventional  arabesque 
of  the  great  Italian  schools.  All  these  were  reached  from 
above,  all  reached  by  stooping  from  a knowledge  of  the 
human  form.  Depend  upon  it  you  will  find,  as  you  look 
more  and  more  into  the  matter,  that  good  subordinate 
ornament  has  ever  been  rooted  in  a higher  knowledge; 
and  if  you  are  again  to  produce  anything  that  is  noble, 
you  must  have  the  higher  knowledge  first,  and  descend  to 
all  lower  service ; condescend  as  much  as  you  like, — con- 
descension never  does  any  man  any  harm, — but  get  your 
noble  standing  first.  So,  then,  without  any  scruple,  what- 
ever branch  of  art  you  may  be  inclined  as  a student  here 
to  follow, — whatever  you  are  to  make  your  bread  by,  I 
say,  so  far  as  you  have  time  and  power,  make  yourself 
first  a noble  and  accomplished  artist ; understand  at  least 
what  noble  and  accomplished  art  is,  and  then  you  will  be 
able  to  apply  your  knowledge  to  all  service  whatsoever. 

I am  now  going  to  ask  your  permission  to  name  the 


72 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


[LECT.  II. 


masters  whom  I think  it  would  be  well  if  we  could  agree, 
in  our  Schools  of  Art  in  England,  to  consider  our  leaders. 
The  first  and  chief  I will  not  myself  presume  to  name ; he 
shall  be  distinguished  for  you  by  the  authority  of  those 
two  great  painters  of  whom  we  have  just  been  speaking — 
Reynolds  and  Velasquez.  You  may  remember  that  in 
your  Manchester  Art  Treasures  Exhibition  the  most 
impressive  things  were  the  works  of  those  two  men — 
nothing  told  upon  the  eye  so  much;  no  other  pictures 
retained  it  with  such  a persistent  power.  Now,  I have  the 
testimony,  first  of  Reynolds  to  Velasquez,  and  then  of 
Velasquez  to  the  man  whom  I want  you  to  take  as  the 
master  of  all  your  English  schools.  The  testimony  of 
Reynolds  to  Velasquez  is  very  striking.  I take  it  from 
some  fragments  which  have  just  been  published  by  Mr. 
William  Cotton — precious  fragments — of  Reynolds’  diaries, 
which  I chanced  upon  luckily  as  I was  coming  down  here : 
for  I was  going  to  take  Velasquez’  testimony  alone,  and 
then  fell  upon  this  testimony  of  Reynolds  to  Velasquez, 
written  most  fortunately  in  Reynolds’  own  hand — you 
may  see  the  manuscript.  “ What  we  are  all,”  said  Rey- 
nolds, “ attempting  to  do  with  great  labor,  Velasquez  does  at 
once.''1  Just  think  what  is  implied  when  a man  of  the 
enormous  power  and  facility  that  Reynolds  had,  says  he 
was  “ trying  to  do  with  great  labor”  what  Velasquez  “ did 
at  once.” 

Having  thus  Reynolds’  testimony  to  Velasquez,  I will 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


73 


take  Yelasquez’  testimony  to  somebody  else.  You  know 
that  Yelasquez  was  sent  by  Philip  of  Spain  to  Italy,  to  buy 
pictures  for  him.  He  went  all  over  Italy,  saw  the  living 
artists  there,  and  all  their  best  pictures  when  freshly  painted, 
so  that  he  had  every  opportunity  of  judging;  and  never 
was  a man  so  capable  of  judging.  He  went  to  Rome  and 
ordered  various  works  of  living  artists ; and  while  there, 
he  was  one  day  asked  by  Salvator  Rosa  what  he  thought  of 
Raphael.  His  reply,  and  the  ensuing  conversation,  are  thus 
reported  by  Boschini,  in  curious  Italian  verse,  which,  thus 
translated  by  Dr.  Donaldson,  is  quoted  in  Mr.  Stirling’s  Life 
of  Yelasquez: — 

“The  master”  [Yelasquez]  “stiffly  bowed  his  figure  tall 
And  said,  L For  Rafael,  to  speak  the  truth — 

I always  was  plain-spoken  from  my  youth — 

I cannot  say  I like  his  works  at  all.’ 

“ ‘Well,’  said  the  other”  [Salvator],  “ 1 if  you  can  run  down 
So  great  a man,  I really  cannot  see 
What  you  can  find  to  like  in  Italy  ; 

To  him  we  all  agree  to  give  the  crown.’ 

“Diego  answered  thus : 1 1 saw  in  Venice 
The  true  test  of  the  good  and  beautiful ; 

First  in  my  judgment,  ever  stands  that  school, 

And  Titian  first  of  all  Italian  men  is.’  ” 

“ Tizian  ze  quel  che  porta  la  bandiera” 

Learn  that  line  by  heart,  and  act,  at  all  events  for  some  time 


74 


THE  UNITY  OF  AET. 


[LECT.  II. 


to  come,  upon  Velasquez’  opinion  in  that  matter.  Titian  is 
much  the  safest  master  for  you.  Raphael’s  power,  such  as 
it  was,  and  great  as  it  was,  depended  wholly  upon  transcen- 
dental characters  in  his  mind;  it  is  “ Raphaelesque,”  pro- 
perly so  called ; but  Titian’s  power  is  simply  the  power  of 
doing  right.  Whatever  came  before  Titian,  he  did  wholly 
as  it  ought  to  be  done.  Do  not  suppose  that  now  in  recom- 
mending Titian  to  you  so  strongly,  and  speaking  of  nobody 
else  to-night,  I am  retreating  in  anywise  from  what  some 
of  you  may  perhaps  recollect  in  my  works,  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  I have  always  spoken  of  another  Venetian 
painter.  There  are  three  Venetians  who  are  never  separated 
in  my  mind — -Titian,  Veronese,  and  Tintoret.  They  all 
have  their  own  unequalled  gifts,  and  Tintoret  especially  has 
imagination  and  depth  of  soul  which  I think  renders  him 
indisputably  the  greatest  man  ; but,  equally  indisputably, 
Titian  is  the  greatest  painter;  and  therefore  the  greatest 
painter  who  ever  lived.  You  may  be  led  wrong  by  Tinto- 
ret* in  many  respects,  wrong  by  Raphael  in  more ; all  that 
you  learn  from  Titian  will  be  right.  Then,  with  Titian, 
take  Leonardo,  Rembrandt,  and  Albert  Durer.  I name  those 
three  masters  for  this  reason : Leonardo  has  powers  of  sub- 
tle drawing  which  are  peculiarly  applicable  in  many  ways 
to  the  drawing  of  fine  ornament,  and  are  very  useful  for 
all  students.  Rembrandt  and  Durer  are  the  only  men 


* See  Appendix  I. — u Right  and  Wrong.” 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ABT. 


75 


whose  actual  work  of  hand  you  can  have  to  look  at ; you 
can  have  Rembrandt’s  etchings,  or  Durer’s  engravings  actu- 
ally hung  in  your  schools ; and  it  is  a main  point  for  the  stu- 
dent to  see  the  real  thing,  and  avoid  judging  of  masters  at 
second-hand.  As,  however,  in  obeying  this  principle,  you 
cannot  often  have  opportunities  of  studying  Venetian  paint- 
ing, it  is  desirable  that  you  should  have  a useful  standard  of 
colour,  and  I think  it  is  possible  for  you  to  obtain  this.  I 
cannot,  indeed,  without  entering  upon  ground  which  might 
involve  the  hurting  the  feelings  of  living  artists,  state  ex- 
actly what  I believe  to  be  the  relative  position  of  various 
painters  in  England  at  present  with  respect  to  power  of 
colour.  But  I may  say  this,  that  in  the  peculiar  gifts  of 
colour  which  will  be  useful  to  you  as  students,  there  are 
only  one  or  two  of  the  pre-Raphaelites,  and  William  Hunt, 
of  the  old  Water  Colour  Society,  who  would  be  safe  guides 
for  you ; and  as  quite  a safe  guide,  there  is  nobody  but 
William  Hunt,  because  the  pre-Raphaelites  are  all  more  or 
less  affected  by  enthusiasm  and  by  various  morbid  condi- 
tions of  intellect  and  temper ; but  old  William  Hunt — I am 
sorry  to  say  “old,”  but  I say  it  in  a loving  way,  for  every 
year  that  has  added  to  his  life  has  added  also  to  his  skill — 
William  Hunt  is  as  right  as  the  Venetians,  as  far  as  he  goes, 
and  what  is  more,  nearly  as  inimitable  as  they.  And  I think 
if  we  manage  to  put  in  the  principal  schools  of  England  a 
little  bit  of  Hunt’s  work,  and  make  that  somewhat  of  a 
standard  of  colour,  that  we  can  apply  his  principles  of 


76 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


[LECT.  II. 


colouring  to  subjects  of  all  kinds.  Until  you  have  bad  a 
work  of  his  long  near  you;  nay,  unless  you  have  been 
labouring  at  it,  and  trying  to  copy  it,  you  do  not  know  the 
thoroughly  grand  qualities  that  are  concentrated  in  it. 
Simplicity,  and  intensity,  both  of  the  highest  character ; — 
simplicity  of  aim,  and  intensity  of  power  and  success,  are 
involved  in  that  man’s  unpretending  labour. 

Finally,  you  cannot  believe  that  I would  omit  my  own 
favourite,  Turner.  I fear  from  the  very  number  of  his 
works  left  to  the  nation,  that  there  is  a disposition  now 
rising  to  look  upon  his  vast  bequest  with  some  contempt. 
I beg  of  you,  if  in  nothing  else,  to  believe  me  in  this,  that 
you  cannot  further  the  art  of  England  in  any  way  more 
distinctly  than  by  giving  attention  to  every  fragment  that 
has  been  left  by  that  man.  The  time  will  come  when  his 
full  power  and  right  place  will  be  acknowledged ; that  time 
will  not  be  for  many  a day  yet : nevertheless,  be  assured — 
as  far  as  you  are  inclined  to  give  the  least  faith  to  anything 
I may  say  to  you,  be  assured — that  you  can  act  for  the 
good  of  art  in  England  in  no  better  way  than  by  using 
whatever  influence  any  of  you  have  in  any  direction  to 
urge  the  reverent  study  and  yet  more  reverent  preservation 
of  the  works  of  Turner.  I do  not  say  “ the  exhibition” 
of  his  works,  for  we  are  not  altogether  ripe  for  it : they  are 
still  too  far  above  us ; uniting,  as  I was  telling  you,  too 
many  qualities  for  us  yet  to  feel  fully  their  range  and  their 
influence ; — but  let  us  only  try  to  keep  them  safe  from 


LECT.  II.] 


THE  UNITY  OF  ART. 


77 


harm,  and  show  thoroughly  and  conveniently  what  we 
show  of  them  at  all,  and  day  by  day  their  greatness  will 
dawn  upon  us  more  and  more,  and  be  the  root  of  a 
school  of  art  in  England,  which  I do  not  doubt  may  be 
as  bright,  as  just,  and  as  refined  as  even  that  of  Venice 
herself.  The  dominion  of  the  sea  seems  to  have  been 
associated,  in  past  time,  with  dominion  in  the  arts  also  : 
Athens  had  them  together;  Venice  had  them  together; 
but  by  so  much  as  our  authority  over  the  ocean  is  wider 
than  theirs  over  the  Aegean  or  Adriatic,  let  us  strive  to 
make  our  art  more  widely  beneficent  than  theirs,  though  it 
cannot  be  more  exalted  ; so  working  out  the  fulfilment,  in 
their  wakening  as  well  as  their  warning  sense,  of  those 
great  words  of  the  aged  Tintoret : 

“Sempre  si  fa  il  Mare  Maggiore.” 


LECTURE  III. 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  AND  DESIGN. 

A LECTURE 

Delivered  at  Bradford , March , 1859. 

It  is  with  a deep  sense  of  necessity  for  your  indulgence  that 
I venture  to  address  you  to-night,  or  that  I venture  at  any 
time  to  address  the  pupils  of  schools  of  design  intended  for 
the  advancement  of  taste  in  special  branches  of  manufac- 
ture. No  person  is  able  to  give  useful  and  definite  help 
towards  such  special  applications  of  art,  unless  he  is  en- 
tirely familiar  with  the  conditions  of  labour  and  natures  of 
material  involved  in  the  work  ; and  indefinite  help  is 
little  better  than  no  help  at  all.  Nay,  the  few  remarks 
which  I propose  to  lay  before  you  this  evening  will,  I fear, 
be  rather  suggestive  of  difficulties  than  helpful  in  con- 
quering them  : nevertheless,  it  may  not  be  altogether  un- 
serviceable to  define  clearly  for  you  (and  this,  at  least,  I 
am  able  to  do)  one  or  two  of  the  more  stern  general  obsta- 
cles which  stand  at  present  in  the  way  of  our  success  in  de- 
sign ; and  to  warn  you  against  exertion  of  effort  in  any  vain 
or  wasteful  way,  till  these  main  obstacles  are  removed. 


LEOT.  III.] 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE  ETC. 


79 


The  first  of  these  is  our  not  understanding  the  scope  and 
dignity  of  Decorative  design.  With  all  our  talk  about  it, 
the  very  meaning  of  the  words  “ Decorative  art”  remains 
confused  and  undecided.  I want,  if  possible,  to  settle  this 
question  for  you  to-night,  and  to  show  you  that  the  princi- 
ples on  which  you  must  work  are  likely  to  be  false,  in  pro- 
portion as  they  are  narrow ; true,  only  as  they  are  founded 
on  a perception  of  the  connection  of  all  branches  of  art  with 
each  other. 

Observe,  then,  first — the  only  essential  distinction  be- 
tween Decorative  and  other  art  is  the  being  fitted  for  a fixed 
place ; and  in  that  place,  related,  either  in  subordination  or 
command,  to  the  effect  of  other  pieces  of  art.  And  all  the 
greatest  art  which  the  world  has  produced  is  thus  fitted  for 
a place,  and  subordinated  to  a purpose.  There  is  no  exist- 
ing highest-order  art  but  is  decorative.  The  best  sculpture 
yet  produced  has  been  the  decoration  of  a temple  front — 
the  best  painting,  the  decoration  of  a room.  Eaphael’s  best 
doing  is  merely  the  wall-colouring  of  a suite  of  apartments 
in  the  Vatican,  and  his  cartoons  were  made  for  tapestries. 
Correggio’s  best  doing  is  the  decoration  of  two  small  church 
cupolas  at  Parma;  Michael  Angelo’s,  of  a ceiling  in  the 
Pope’s  private  chapel ; Tintoret’s,  of  a ceiling  and  side  wall 
belonging  to  a charitable  society  at  V enice ; while  Titian  and 
Veronese  threw  out  their  noblest  thoughts,  not  even  on  the 
inside,  but  on  the  outside  of  the  common  brick  and  plaster 
walls  of  Venice. 


80 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


Get  rid,  then,  at  once  of  any  idea  of  Decorative  art  being 
a degraded  or  a separate  kind  of  art.  Its  nature  or  essence 
is  simply  its  being  fitted  for  a definite  place ; and,  in  that 
place,  forming  part  of  a great  and  harmonious  whole,  in 
companionship  with  other  art ; and  so  far  from  this  being  a 
degradation  to  it — so  far  from  Decorative  art  being  inferior 
to  other  art  because  it  is  fixed  to  a spot — on  the  whole  it 
may  be  considered  as  rather  a piece  of  degradation  that  it 
should  be  portable.  Portable  art — independent  of  all  place 
— -is  for  the  most  part  ignoble  art.  Your  little  Dutch  land- 
scape, which  you  put  over  your  sideboard  to-day,  and  be- 
tween the  windows  to-morrow,  is  a far  more  contemptible 
piece  of  work  than  the  extents  of  field  and  forest  with  which 
Benozzo  has  made  green  and  beautiful  the  once  melancholy 
arcade  of  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa ; and  the  wild  boar  of 
silver  which  you  use  for  a seal,  or  lock  into  a velvet  case, 
is  little  likely  to  be  so  noble  a beast  as  the  bronze  boar  who 
foams  forth  the  fountain  from  under  his  tusks  in  the  mar- 
ket-place of  Florence.  It  is,  indeed,  possible  that  the  por- 
table picture  or  image  may  be  first-rate  of  its  kind,  but  it 
is  not  first-rate  because  it  is  portable;  nor  are  Titian’s 
frescoes  less  than  first-rate  because  they  are  fixed ; nay, 
very  frequently  the  highest  compliment  you  can  pay 
to  a cabinet  picture  is  to  say — “It  is  as  grand  as  a 
fresco.” 

Keeping,  then,  this  fact  fixed  in  our  minds, — that  all  art 
may  be  decorative,  and  that  the  greatest  art  yet  produced 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


81 


has  been  decorative, — we  may  proceed  to  distinguish  the 
orders  and  dignities  of  Decorative  art,  thus : — 

I.  The  first  order  of  it  is  that  which  is  meant  for  places 
where  it  cannot  be  disturbed  or  injured,  and  where  it  can 
be  perfectly  seen ; and  then  the  main  parts  of  it  should  be, 
and  have  always  been  made,  by  the  great  masters,  as  perfect, 
and  as  full  of  nature  as  possible. 

You  will  every  day  hear  it  absurdly  said  that  room  de- 
coration should  be  by  flat  patterns — by  dead  colours — by 
conventional  monotonies,  and  I know  not  what.  Now,  just 
be  assured  of  this — nobody  ever  yet  used  conventional  art 
to  decorate  with,  when  he  could  do  anything  better,  and 
knew  that  what  he  did  would  be  safe.  Nay,  a great  painter 
will  always  give  you  the  natural  art,  safe  or  not.  Correggio 
gets  a commission  to  paint  a room  on  the  ground  floor  of  a 
palace  at  Parma:  Any  of  our  people — bred  on  our  fine 
modern  principles — would  have  covered  it  with  a diaper, 
or  with  stripes  or  flourishes,  or  mosaic  patterns.  Not  so 
Correggio : — he  paints  a thick  trellis  of  vine-leaves,  with 
oval  openings,  and  lovely  children  leaping  through  them 
into  the  room ; and  lovely  children,  depend  upon  it,  are 
rather  more  desirable  decorations  than  diaper,  if  you  can 
do  them — but  they  are  not  quite  so  easily  done.  In  like 
manner  Tintoret  has  to  paint  the  whole  end  of  the  Council 
Hall  at  Venice.  An  orthodox  decorator  would  have  set 
himself  to  make  the  wall  look  like  a wall — Tintoret  thinks 
it  would  be  rather  better,  if  he  can  manage  it,  to  make  it 

6 


82 


MODERN"  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


look  a little  like  Paradise ; — stretches  his  canvas  right  over 
the  wall,  and  his  clouds  right  over  his  canvas  ; brings  the 
light  through  his  clouds — all  blue  and  clear — zodiac  beyond 
zodiac ; rolls  away  the  vaporous  flood  from  under  the  feet 
of  saints,  leaving  them  at  last  in  infinitudes  of  light — un- 
orthodox in  the  last  degree,  but,  on  the  whole,  pleasant. 

And  so  in  all  other  cases  whatever,  the  greatest  decora- 
tive art  is  wholly  unconventional — downright,  pure,  good 
painting  and  sculpture,  but  always  fitted  for  its  place ; and 
subordinated  to  the  purpose  it  has  to  serve  in  that  place. 

II.  But  if  art  is  to  be  placed  where  it  is  liable  to  injury 
— to  wear  and  tear ; or  to  alteration  of  its  form ; as,  for  in- 
stance, on  domestic  utensils,  and  armour,  and  weapons, 
and  dress ; in  which  either  the  ornament  will  be  worn  out 
by  the  usage  of  the  thing,  or  will  be  cast  into  altered  shape 
by  the  play  of  its  folds ; then  it  is  wrong  to  put  beautiful 
and  perfect  art  to  such  uses,  and  you  want  forms  of  infe- 
rior art,  such  as  will  be  by  their  simplicity  less  liable  to  in- 
j ury ; or,  by  reason  of  their  complexity  and  continuousness, 
may  show  to  advantage,  however  distorted  by  the  folds 
they  are  cast  into. 

And  thus  arise  the  various  forms  of  inferior  decorative 
art,  respecting  which  the  general  law  is,  that  the  lower  the 
place  and  office  of  the  thing,  the  less  of  natural  or  perfect 
form  you  should  have  in  it ; a zigzag  or  a chequer  is  thus 
a better,  because  a more  consistent  ornament  for  a cup  or 
platter  than  a landscape  or  portrait  is : hence  the  general 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


83 


definition  of  the  true  forms  of  conventional  ornament  is, 
that  they  consist  in  the  bestowal  of  as  much  beauty  on  the 
object  as  shall  be  consistent  with  its  Material,  its  Place,  and 
its  Office. 

Let  us  consider  these  three  modes  of  consistency  a little. 

(a.)  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inefficiency  of  ma- 
terial. 

If,  for  instance,  we  are  required  to  represent  a human  fi- 
gure with  stone  only,  we  cannot  represent  its  colour ; we 
reduce  its  colour  to  whiteness.  That  is  not  elevating  the 
human  body,  but  degrading  it ; only  it  would  be  a much 
greater  degradation  to  give  its  colour  falsely.  Diminish  beau- 
ty as  much  as  you  will,  but  do  not  misrepresent  it.  So  again, 
when  we  are  sculpturing  a face,  we  can’t  carve  its  eyelashes. 
The  face  is  none  the  better  for  wanting  its  eyelashes — it  is 
injured  by  the  want ; but  would  be  much  more  injured  by 
a clumsy  representation  of  them. 

Neither  can  we  carve  the  hair.  We  must  be  content 
with  the  conventionalism  of  vile  solid  knots  and  lumps  of 
marble,  instead  of  the  golden  cloud  that  encompasses  the 
fair  human  face  with  its  waving  mystery.  The  lumps  of 
marble  are  not  an  elevated  representation  of  hair — they  are 
a degraded  one ; yet  better  than  any  attempt  to  imitate 
hair  with  the  incapable  material. 

In  all  cases  in  which  such  imitation  is  attempted,  instant 
degradation  to  a still  lower  level  is  the  result.  For  the 
effort  to  imitate  shows  that  the  workman  has  only  a base 


84 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


and  poor  conception  of  the  beauty  of  the  reality — else  he 
would  know  his  task  to  be  hopeless,  and  give  it  up  at  once : 
so  that  all  endeavours  to  avoid  conventionalism,  when  the 
material  demands  it,  result  from  insensibility  to  truth,  and 
are  among  the  worst  forms  of  vulgarity.  Hence,  in  the 
greatest  Greek  statues,  the  hair  is  very  slightly  indicated — 
not  because  the  sculptor  disdained  hair,  but  because  he 
knew  what  it  was  too  well  to  touch  it  insolently.  I do  not 
doubt  but  that  the  Greek  painters  drew  hair  exactly  as  Ti- 
tian does.  Modern  attempts  to  produce  finished  pictures 
on  glass  result  from  the  same  base  vulgarism.  No  man 
who  knows  what  painting  means,  can  endure  a painted 
glass  window  which  emulates  painter’s  work.  But  he  re- 
joices in  a glowing  mosaic  of  broken  colour : for  that  is 
what  the  glass  has  the  special  gift  and  right  of  producing.* 
(r.)  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority  of  place. 
When  work  is  to  be  seen  at  a great  distance,  or  in  dark 
places,  or  in  some  other  imperfect  way,  it  constantly  be- 
comes necessary  to  treat  it  coarsely  or  severely,  in  order  to 
make  it  effective.  The  statues  on  cathedral  fronts,  in  good 
times  of  design,  are  variously  treated  according  to  their 
distances  : no  fine  execution  is  put  into  the  features  of  the 
Madonna  who  rules  the  group  of  figures  above  the  south 
transept  of  Rouen  at  150  feet  above  the  ground:  but  in 
base  modern  work,  as  Milan  Cathedral,  the  sculpture  is 


* See  Appendix  II.,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’  disappointment. 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


85 


finished  without  any  reference  to  distance ; and  the  merit 
of  every  statue  is  supposed  to  consist  in  the  visitor’s  being 
obliged  to  ascend  three  hundred  steps  before  he  can  see  it. 

(c.)  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority  of  office. 

When  one  piece  of  ornament  is  to  be  subordinated  to 
another  (as  the  moulding  is  to  the  sculpture  it  encloses,  or 
the  fringe  of  a drapery  to  the  statue  it  veils),  this  inferior 
ornament  needs  to  be  degraded  in  order  to  mark  its  lower 
office ; and  this  is  best  done  by  refusing,  more  or  less,  the 
introduction  of  natural  form.  The  less  of  nature  it  con- 
tains, the  more  degraded  is  the  ornament,  and  the  fitter  for 
a humble  place ; but,  however  far  a great  workman  may 
go  in  refusing  the  higher  organisms  of  nature,  he  always 
takes  care  to  retain  the  magnificence  of  natural  lines ; that 
is  to  say,  of  the  infinite  curves,  such  as  I have  analyzed  in 
the  fourth  volume  of  “ Modern  Painters.”  His  copyists, 
fancying  that  they  can  follow  him  without  nature,  miss 
precisely  the  essence  of  all  the  work ; so  that  even  the 
simplest  piece  of  Greek  conventional  ornament  loses  the 
whole  of  its  value  in  any  modern  imitation  of  it,  the  finer 
curves  being  always  missed.  Perhaps  one  of  the  dullest 
and  least  justifiable  mistakes  which  have  yet  been  made 
about  my  writing,  is  the  supposition  that  I have  attacked  or 
despised  Greek  work.  I have  attacked  Palladian  work, 
and  modern  imitation  of  Greek  work.  Of  Greek  work 
itself  I have  never  spoken  but  with  a reverence  quite 
infinite : I name  Phidias  always  in  exactly  the  same  tone 


86 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


with  which  I speak  of  Michael  Angelo,  Titian,  and  Dante. 
My  first  statement  of  this  faith,  now  thirteen  years  ago, 
was  surely  clear  enough.  “We  shall  see  by  this  light 
three  colossal  images  standing  up  side  by  side,  looming  in 
their  great  rest  of  spirituality  above  the  whole  world  hori- 
zon. Phidias,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Dante, — from  these  we 
may  go  down  step  by  step  among  the  mighty  men  of 
every  age,  securely  and  certainly  observant  of  diminished 
lustre  in  every  appearance  of  restlessness  and  effort,  until 
the  last  trace  of  inspiration  vanishes  in  the  tottering  affec- 
tation or  tortured  insanities  of  modern  times.”  (Modern 
Painters,  vol.  ii.,  p.  63.)  This  was  surely  plain  speaking 
enough,  and  from  that  day  to  this  my  effort  has  been  not 
less  continually  to  make  the  heart  of  Greek  work  known 
than  the  heart  of  Gothic : namely,  the  nobleness  of  con- 
ception of  form  derived  from  perpetual  study  of  the  figure  ; 
and  my  complaint  of  the  modern  architect  has  been  not 
that  he  followed  the  Greeks,  but  that  he  denied  the  first 
laws  of  life  in  theirs  as  in  all  other  art. 

The  fact  is,  that  all  good  subordinate  forms  of  ornamen- 
tation ever  yet  existent  in  the  world  have  been  invented, 
and  others  as  beautiful  can  only  be  invented,  by  men  pri- 
marily exercised  in  drawing  or  carving  the  human  figure. 
I will  not  repeat  here  what  I have  already  twice  insisted 
upon,  to  the  students  of  London  and  Manchester,  respect- 
ing the  degradation  of  temper  and  intellect  which  follows 
the  pursuit  of  art  without  reference  to  natural  form,  as 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


87 


among  the  Asiatics : here,  I will  only  trespass  on  your 
patience  so  far  as  to  mark  the  inseparable  connection 
between  figure-drawing  and  good  ornamental  work,  in  the 
great  European  schools,  and  all  ‘that  are  connected  with 
them. 

Tell  me,  then,  first  of  all,  what  ornamental  work  is 
usually  put  before  our  students  as  the  type  of  decorative 
perfection?  Raphael’s  arabesques  ; are  they  not?  Well, 
Raphael  knew  a little  about  the  figure,  I suppose,  before  he 
drew  them.  I do  not  say  that  I like  those  arabesques  ; but 
there  are  certain  qualities  in  them  which  are  inimitable  by 
modern  designers  ; and  those  qualities  are  just  the  fruit  of 
the  master’s  figure  study.  What  is  given  the  student  as 
next  to  Raphael’s  work?  Cinquecento  ornament  gene- 
rally. Well,  cinquecento  generally,  with  its  birds,  and 
cherubs,  and  wreathed  foliage,  and  clustered  fruit,  was  the 
amusement  of  men  who  habitually  and  easily  carved  the 
figure,  or  painted  it.  All  the  truly  fine  specimens  of  it 
have  figures  or  animals  as  main  parts  of  the  design. 

“ Nay,  but,”  some  anciently  or  medievally  minded  person 
will  exclaim,  “ we  don’t  want  to  study  cinquecento.  We 
want  severer,  purer  conventionalism.”  What  will  you  have? 
Egyptian  ornament  ? Why,  the  whole  mass  of  it  is  made 
up  of  multitudinous  human  figures  in  every  kind  of  action 
— and  magnificent  action ; their  kings  drawing  their  bows 
in  their  chariots,  their  sheaves  of  arrows  rattling  at  their 
shoulders ; the  slain  falling  under  them  as  before  a pesti- 


88 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  Ill, 


lence ; their  captors  driven  before  them  in  astonied  troops ; 
and  do  you  expect  to  imitate  Egyptian  ornament  without 
knowing  how  to  draw  the  human  figure?  Nay,  but  you 
will  take  Christian  ornament — purest  mediaeval  Christian 
— thirteenth  century  ! Yes : and  do  you  suppose  you  will 
find  the  Christian  less  human  ? The  least  natural  and  most 
purely  conventional  ornament  of  the  Gothic  schools  is  that 
of  their  painted  glass ; and  do  you  suppose  painted  glass, 
in  the  fine  times,  was  ever  wrought  without  figures  ? We 
have  got  into  the  way,  among  our  other  modern  wretched- 
nesses, of  trying  to  make  windows  of  leaf  diapers,  and  of 
strips  of  twisted  red  and  yellow  bands,  looking  like  the  pat- 
terns of  currant  jelly  on  the  top  of  Christmas  cakes;  but 
every  casement  of  old  glass  contained  a saint’s  history. 
The  windows  of  Bourges,  Chartres,  or  Rouen  have  ten, 
fifteen,  or  twenty  medallions  in  each,  and  each  medallion 
contains  two  figures  at  least,  often  six  or  seven,  represent- 
ing every  event  of  interest  in  the  history  of  the  saint  whose 
life  is  in  question.  Nay,  but,  you  say  those  figures  are  rude 
and  quaint,  and  ought  not  to  be  imitated.  Why,  so  is  the 
leafage  rude  and  quaint,  yet  you  imitate  that.  The  co- 
loured border  pattern  of  geranium  or  ivy  leaf  is  not  one 
whit  better  drawn,  or  more  like  geraniums  and  ivy,  than  the 
figures  are  like  figures ; but  you  call  the  geranium  leaf  ide- 
alized— why  don’t  you  call  the  figures  so  ? The  fact  is, 
neither  are  idealized,  but  both  are  conventionalized  on  the 
same  principles,  and  in  the  same  way  ; and  if  you  want  to 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


89 


learn  how  to  treat  the  leafage,  the  only  way  is  to  learn  first 
how  to  treat  the  figure.  And  you  may  soon  test  your 
powers  in  this  respect.  Those  old  workmen  were  not  afraid 
of  the  most  familiar  subjects.  The  windows  of  Chartres 
were  presented  by  the  trades  of  the  town,  and  at  the  bot- 
tom of  each  window  is  a representation  of  the  proceedings 
of  the  tradesmen  at  the  business  which  enabled  them  to  pay 
for  the  window.  There  are  smiths  at  the  forge,  curriers  at 
their  hides,  tanners  looking  into  their  pits,  mercers  selling 
goods  over  the  counter — all  made  into  beautiful  medallions. 
Therefore,  whenever  you  want  to  know  whether  you  have 
got  any  real  power  of  composition  or  adaptation  in  orna- 
ment, don’t  be  content  with  sticking  leaves  together  by  the 
ends, — anybody  can  do  that ; but  try  to  conventionalize  a 
butcher’s  or  a greengrocer’s,  with  Saturday  night  customers 
buying  cabbage  and  beef.  That  will  tell  you  if  you  can 
design  or  not. 

I can  fancy  your  losing  patience  with  me  altogether  just 
now.  “ We  asked  this  fellow  down  to  tell  our  workmen 
how  to  make  shawls,  and  he  is  only  trying  to  teach  them 
how  to  caricature.”  But  have  a little  patience  with  me,  and 
examine,  after  I have  done,  a little  for  yourselves  into  the 
history  of  ornamental  art,  and  you  will  discover  why  I do 
this.  You  will  discover,  I repeat,  that  all  great  ornamental 
art  whatever  is  founded  on  the  effort  of  the  workman  to 
draw  the  figure,  and,  in  the  best  schools,  to  draw  all  that 
he  saw  about  him  in  living  nature.  The  best  art  of  pot- 


90 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


tery  is  acknowledged  to  be  tbat  of  Greece,  and  all  the 
power  of  design  exhibited  in  it,  down  to  the  merest  zigzag, 
arises  primarily  from  the  workman  having  been  forced  to 
outline  nymphs  and  knights ; from  those  helmed  and 
draped  figures  he  holds  his  power.  Of  Egyptian  ornament 
I have  just  spoken.  You  have  everything  given  there 
that  the  workman  saw ; people  of  his  nation  employed  in 
hunting,  fighting,  fishing,  visiting,  making  love,  building, 
cooking — everything  they  did  is  drawn,  magnificently  or 
familiarly,  as  was  needed.  In  Byzantine  ornament,  saints, 
or  animals  which  are  types  of  various  spiritual  power,  are 
the  main  subjects  ; and  from  the  church  down  to  the  piece 
of  enamelled  metal,  figure, — figure, — figure,  always  princi- 
pal. In  Norman  and  Gothic  work  you  have,  with  all  their 
quiet  saints,  also  other  much  disquieted  persons,  hunting, 
feasting,  fighting,  and  so  on ; or  whole  hordes  of  animals 
racing  after  each  other.  In  the  Bayeux  tapestry,  Queen 
Matilda  gave,  as  well  as  she  could, — in  many  respects 
graphically  enough, — the  whole  history  of  the  conquest  of 
England.  Thence,  as  you  increase  in  power  of  art,  you 
have  more  and  more  finished  figures,  up  to  the  solemn 
sculptures  of  Wells  Cathedral,  or  the  cherubic  enrichments 
of  the  Venetian  Madonna  dei  Miracoli.  Therefore,  I will 
tell  you  fearlessly,  for  I know  it  is  true,  you  must  raise 
your  workman  up  to  life,  or  you  will  never  get  from  him 
one  line  of  well-imagined  conventionalism.  We  have  at 
present  no  good  ornamental  design.  We  can’t  have  it  yet, 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


91 


and  we  must  be  patient  if  we  want  to  have  it.  Do  not 
hope  to  feel  the  effect  of  your  schools  at  once,  but  raise  the 
men  as  high  as  you  can,  and  then  let  them  stoop  as  low  as 
you  need ; no  great  man  ever  minds  stooping.  Encourage 
the  students,  in  sketching  accurately  and  continually  from 
nature  anything  that  comes  in  their  way — still  life,  flowers, 
animals  ; but,  above  all,  figures  ; and  so  far  as  you  allow 
of  any  difference  between  an  artist’s  training  and  theirs,  let 
it  be,  not  in  what  they  draw,  but  in  the  degree  of  conven- 
tionalism you  require  in  the  sketch. 

For  my  own  part,  I should  always  endeavour  to  give 
thorough  artistical  training  first;  but  I am  not  certain 
(the  experiment  being  yet  untried)  what  results  may 
be  obtained  by  a truly  intelligent  practice  of  conventional 
drawing,  such  as  that  of  the  Egyptians,  Greeks,  or  thir- 
teenth century  French,  which  consists  in  the  utmost  pos- 
sible rendering  of  natural  form  by  the  fewest  possible 
lines.  The  animal  and  bird  drawing  of  the  Egyptians 
is,  in  their  fine  age,  quite  magnificent  under  its  con- 
ditions ; magnificent  in  two  ways — first,  in  keenest  percep- 
tion of  the  main  forms  and  facts  in  the  creature ; and, 
secondly,  in  the  grandeur  of  line  by  which  their  forms  are 
abstracted  and  insisted  on,  making  every  asp,  ibis,  and 
vulture  a sublime  spectre  of  asp  or  ibis  or  vulture  power. 
The  way  for  students  to  get  some  of  this  gift  again  ( some 
only,  for  I believe  the  fulness  of  the  gift  itself  to  be 
connected  with  vital  superstition,  and  with  resulting  in- 


92 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


tensity  of  reverence  ; people  were  likely  to  know  some- 
thing about  hawks  and  ibises,  when  to  kill  one  was  to 
be  irrevocably  judged  to  death)  is  never  to  pass  a day 
without  drawing  some  animal  from  the  life,  allowing  them- 
selves the  fewest  possible  lines  and  colours  to  do  it 
with,  but  resolving  that  whatever  is  characteristic  of  the 
animal  shall  in  some  way  or  other  be  shown.*  I repeat,  it 
cannot  yet  be  judged  what  results  might  be  obtained  by 
a nobly  practised  conventionalism  of  this  kind ; but, 
however  that  may  be,  the  first  fact, — the  necessity  of 
animal  and  figure  drawing,  is  absolutely  certain,  and  no 
person  who  shrinks  from  it  will  ever  become  a great 
designer. 

One  great  good  arises  even  from  the  first  step  in  figure 
drawing,  that  it  gets  the  student  quit  at  once  of  the  notion 
of  formal  symmetry.  If  you  learn  only  to  draw  a leaf 
well,  you  are  taught  in  some  of  our  schools  to  turn  it  the 
other  way,  opposite  to  itself ; and  the  two  leaves  set  oppo- 
site ways  are  called  “a  design:”  and  thus  it  is  supposed 
possible  to  produce  ornamentation,  though  you  have  no 
more  brains  than  a looking-glass  or  a kaleidoscope  has. 
But  if  you  once  learn  to  draw  the  human  figure,  you  will 
find  that  knocking  two  men’s  heads  together  does  not 
necessarily  constitute  a good  design ; nay,  that  it  makes  a 
very  bad  design,  or  no  design  at  all ; and  you  will  see  at 

* Plate  75  in  Yol.  Y.  of  Wilkinson’s  “ Ancient  Egypt  ” will  give  the 
student  an  idea  of  how  to  set  to  work. 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


93 


once  that  to  arrange  a group  of  two  or  more  figures,  you 
must,  though  perhaps  it  may  be  desirable  to  balance,  or 
oppose  them,  at  the  same  time  vary  their  attitudes,  and 
make  one,  not  the  reverse  of  the  other,  but  the  companion 
of  the  other. 

I had  a somewhat  amusing  discussion  on  this  subject  with 
a friend,  only  the  other  day  ; and  one  of  his  retorts  upon 
me  was  so  neatly  put,  and  expresses  so  completely  all  that 
can  either  be  said  or  shown  on  the  opposite  side,  that  it  is 
well  worth  while  giving  it  you  exactly  in  the  form  it  was 
sent  to  me.  My  friend  had  been  maintaining  that  the 
essence  of  ornament  consisted  in  three  things: — contrast, 
series,  and  symmetry.  I replied  (by  letter)  that  “none  of 
them,  nor  all  of  them  together,  would  produce  ornament. 
Here  ” — (making  a ragged  blot  with  the  back 
of  my  pen  on  the  paper) — “ you  have  contrast ; 
but  it  isn’t  ornament:  here,  1,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,” — (writing  the 
numerals) — “ you  have  series  ; but  it 
isn’t  ornament : and  here,” — (sketch- 
ing this  figure  at  the  side) — “you 
have  symmetry ; but  it  isn’t  orna- 
ment.” 

My  friend  replied  : — 

“Your  materials  were  not  ornament,  because  you  did 
not  apply  them.  I send  them  to  you  back,  made  up 
into  a choice  sporting  neckerchief: — 


94 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


Symmetrical  figure Unit  of  diaper. 

Contrast Corner  ornaments. 

Series Border  ornaments. 

Each  figure  is  converted  into  a harmony  by  being  revolv- 
ed on  its  two  axes,  the  whole  opposed  in  contrasting  series.” 
My  answer  was — or  rather  was  to  the  effect  (for  I must 
expand  it  a little,  here) — that  his  words,  “ because  you  did 
not  apply  them,”  contained  the  gist  of  the  whole  matter ; — - 
that  the  application  of  them,  or  any  other  things,  was  pre- 
cisely the  essence  of  design ; — the  non-application,  or  wrong 
application,  the  negation  of  design:  that  his  use  of  the 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


95 


poor  materials  was  in  this  case  admirable ; and  that  if  he 
could  explain  to  me,  in  clear  words,  the  principles  on 
which  he  had  so  used  them,  he  would  be  doing  a very 
great  service  to  all  students  of  art. 

“ Tell  me,  therefore  (I  asked),  these  main  points  : 

“ 1.  How  did  you  determine  the  number  of  figures  you 
would  put  into  the  neckerchief  ? Had  there  been  more, 
it  would  have  been  mean  and  ineffective,— a pepper- 
and-salt  sprinkling  of  figures.  Had  there  been  fewer, 
it  would  have  been  monstrous.  How  did  you  fix  the 
number  ? 

“2.  How  did  you  determine  the  breadth  of  the  border 
and  relative  size  of  the  numerals  ? 

“ S.  Why  are  there  two  lines  outside  of  the  border,  and 
one  only  inside  ? Why  are  there  no  more  lines  ? Why 
not  three  and  two,  or  three  and  five  ? Why  lines  at  all  to 
separate  the  barbarous  figures;  and  why,  if  lines  at  all, 
not  double  or  treble  instead  of  single  ? 

“ 4.  Why  did  you  put  the  double  blots  at  the  corners  ? 
Why  not  at  the  angles  of  the  chequers,— or  in  the  middle 
of  the  border  ? 

“It  is  precisely  your  knowing  why  not  to  do  these 
things,  and  why  to  do  just  what  you  have  done,  which  con 
stituted  your  power  of  design ; and  like  all  the  people  ] 
have  ever  known  who  had  that  power,  you  are  entirely  un- 
conscious of  the  essential  laws  by  which  you  work,  and 
confuse  other  people  by  telling  them  that  the  design  depends 


96  MODERN"  MANUFACTURE  [LECT.  III. 

on  symmetry  and  series,  when,  in  fact,  it  depends  entirely 
on  your  own  sense  and  j udgment.” 

This  was  the  substance  of  my  last  answer — to  which  (as 
I knew  beforehand  would  be  the  case)  I got  no  reply ; but 
it  still  remains  to  be  observed  that  with  all  the  skill  and  taste 
(especially  involving  the  architect’s  great  trust,  harmony  of 
proportion),  which  my  friend  could  bring  to  bear  on  the 
materials  given  him,  the  result  is  still  only — a sporting 
neckerchief — that  is  to  say,  the  materials  addressed,  first,  to 
recklessness,  in  the  shape  of  a mere  blot ; then  to  computa- 
tiveness,  in  a series  of  figures ; and  then  to  absurdity  and 
ignorance,  in  the  shape  of  an  ill-drawn  caricature — such  ma- 
terials, however  treated,  can  only  work  up  into  what  will 
please  reckless,  computative,  and  vulgar  persons, — that  is  to 
say,  into  a sporting  neckerchief.  The  difference  between 
this  piece  of  ornamentation  and  Correggio’s  painting  at  Par- 
ma lies  simply  and  wholly  in  the  additions  (somewhat  large 
ones),  of  truth  and  of  tenderness : in  the  drawing  being 
lovely  as  well  as  symmetrical — and  representative  of  reali- 
ties as  well  as  agreeably  disposed.  And  truth,  tenderness, 
and  inventive  application  or  disposition  are  indeed  the  roots 
of  ornament — not  contrast,  nor  symmetry. 

It  ought  yet  farther  to  be  observed,  that  the  nobler  the 
materials , the  less  their  symmetry  is  endurable.  In  the  pre- 
sent case,  the  sense  of  fitness  and  order,  produced  by  the 
repetition  of  the  figures,  neutralizes,  in  some  degree,  their 
reckless  vulgarity ; and  is  wholly,  therefore,  beneficent  to 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


97 


them.  But  draw  the  figures  better,  and  their  repetition  will 
become  painful.  You  may  harmlessly  balance  a mere  geo- 
metrical form,  and  oppose  one  quatrefoil  or  cusp  by  an- 
other exactly  like  it.  But  put  two  Apollo  Belvideres  back 
to  back,  and  you  will  not  think  the  symmetry  improves 
them.  Whenever  the  materials  of  ornament  are  noble , they 
must  be  various  ; and  repetition  of  parts  is  either  the  sign  of 
utterly  bad,  hopeless,  and  base  work;  or  of  the  intended 
degradation  of  the  parts  in  which  such  repetition  is  allowed, 
in  order  to  foil  others  more  noble. 

Such,  then,  are  a few  of  the  great  principles,  by  the  en- 
forcement of  *which  you  may  hope  to  promote  the  success 
of  the  modern  student  of  design  ; but  remember,  none  of 
these  principles  will  be  useful  at  all,  unless  you  understand 
them  to  be,  in  one  profound  and  stern  sense,  useless.* 

That  is  to  say,  unless  you  feel  that  neither  you  nor  I,  nor 
any  one,  can,  in  the  great  ultimate  sense,  teach  anybody 
how  to  make  a good  design. 

If  designing  could  be  taught,  all  the  world  would  learn  : 
as  all  the  world  reads — or  calculates.  But  designing  is  not 
to  be  spelled,  nor  summed.  My  men  continually  come  to 
me,  in  my  drawing  class  in  London,  thinking  I am  to  teach 
them  what  is  instantly  to  enable  them  to  gain  their  bread. 
“ Please,  sir,  show  us  how  to  design.”  u Make  designers 

* I shall  endeavour  for  the  future  to  put  my  self-contradictions  in 
short  sentences  and  direct  terms,  in  order  to  save  sagacious  persons 
the  trouble  of  looking  for  them. 


98 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


of  us.”  And  you,  I doubt  not,  partly  expect  me  to  tell 
you  to-night  how  to  make  designers  of  your  Bradford 
youths.  Alas ! I could  as  soon  tell  you  how  to  make  or 
manufacture  an  ear  of  wheat,  as  to  make  a good  artist  of 
any  kind.  I can  analyze  the  wheat  very  learnedly  for  you 
— tell  you  there  is  starch  in  it,  and  carbon,  and  silex.  I can 
give  you  starch,  and  charcoal,  and  flint ; but  you  are  as  far 
from  your  ear  of  wheat  as  you  were  before.  All  that  can 
possibly  be  done  for  an}"  one  who  wants  ears  of  wheat  is  to 
show  them  where  to  find  grains  of  wheat,  and  how  to  sow 
them,  and  then,  with  patience,  in  Heaven’s  time,  the  ears 
will  come — or  will  perhaps  come — ground  and  weather  per- 
mitting. So  in  this  matter  of  making  artists — first  you  must 
find  your  artist  in  the  grain ; then  you  must  plant  him ; 
fence  and  weed  the  field  about  him  ; and  with  patience, 
ground  and  weather  permitting,  you  may  get  an  artist  out 
of  him — not  otherwise.  And  what  I have  to  speak  to  you 
about,  to-night,  is  mainly  the  ground  and  the  weather,  it 
being  the  first  and  quite  most  material  question  in  this  mat- 
ter, whether  the  ground  and  weather  of  Bradford,  or  the 
ground  and  weather  of  England  in  general, — suit  wheat. 

And  observe  in  the  outset,  it  is  not  so  much  what  the 
present  circumstances  of  England  are,  as  what  we  wish  to 
make  them,  that  we  have  to  consider.  If  you  will  tell  me 
what  you  ultimately  intend  Bradford  to  be,  perhaps  I can 
tell  you  what  Bradford  can  ultimately  produce.  But  you 
must  have  your  minds  clearly  made  up,  and  be  distinct  in 


DECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


99 


telling  me  what  yon  do  want.  At  present  I don’t  know 
what  yon  are  aiming  at,  and  possibly  on  consideration  yon 
may  feel  some  donbt  whether  yon  know  yourselves.  As 
matters  stand,  all  over  England,  as  soon  as  one  mill  is  at 
work,  occupying  two  hundred  hands,  we  try,  by  means  of 
it,  to  set  another  mill  at  work,  occupying  four  hundred. 
That  is  all  simple  and  comprehensive  enough — but  what  is 
it  to  come  to  ? How  many  mills  do  we  want  ? or  do  we 
indeed  want  no  end  of  mills  ? Let  us  entirely  understand 
each  other  on  this  point  before  we  go  any  farther.  Last 
week,  I drove  from  Rochdale  to  Bolton  Abbey ; quietly, 
in  order  to  see  the  country,  and  certainly  it  was  well  worth 
while.  I never  went  over  a more  interesting  twenty  miles 
than  those  between  Rochdale  and  Burnley.  Naturally,  the 
valley  has  been  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  the  Lancashire 
hills ; one  of  the  far  away  solitudes,  full  of  old  shepherd 
ways  of  life.  At  this  time  there  are  not, — I speak  delibe- 
rately, and  I believe  quite  literally,— there  are  not,  I think, 
more  than  a thousand  yards  of  road  to  be  traversed  any- 
where, without  passing  a furnace  or  mill. 

Now,  is  that  the  kind  of  thing  you  want  to  come  to 
everywhere  ? Because,  if  it  be,  and  you  tell  me  so  dis- 
tinctly, I think  I can  make  several  suggestions  to-night, 
and  could  make  more  if  you  give  me  time,  which  would 
materially  advance  your  object.  The  extent  of  our  opera- 
tions at  present  is  more  or  less  limited  by  the  extent  of  coal 
and  ironstone,  but  we  have  not  yet  learned  to  make  proper 


100 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


use  of  our  clay.  Over  the  greater  part  of  England,  south 
of  the  manufacturing  districts,  there  are  magnificent  beds  of 
various  kinds  of  useful  clay ; and  I believe  that  it  would 
not  be  difficult  to  point  out  modes  of  employing  it  which 
might  enable  us  to  turn  nearly  the  whole  of  the  south  of 
England  into  a brickfield,  as  we  have  already  turned  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  north  into  a coal-pit.  I say  “nearly”  the 
whole,  because,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware,  there  are  con- 
siderable districts  in  the  south  composed  of  chalk,  renowned 
up  to  the  present  time  for  their  downs  and  mutton.  But,  I 
think,  by  examining  carefully  into  the  conceivable  uses  of 
chalk,  we  might  discover  a quite  feasible  probability  of 
turning  all  the  chalk  districts  into  a limekiln,  as  we  turn 
the  clay  districts  into  a brickfield.  There  would  then 
remain  nothing  but  the  mountain  districts  to  be  dealt  with ; 
but,  as  we  have  not  yet  ascertained  all  the  uses  of  clay  and 
chalk,  still  less  have  we  ascertained  those  of  stone ; and  I 
think,  by  draining  the  useless  inlets  of  the  Cumberland, 
Welsh,  and  Scotch  lakes,  and  turning  them,  with  their 
rivers,  into  navigable  reservoirs  and  canals,  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  in  working  the  whole  of  our  mountain  dis- 
tricts as  a gigantic  quarry  of  slate  and  granite,  from  which 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  might  be  supplied  with  roofing  and 
building  stone. 

Is  this,  then,  what  you  want?  You  are  going  straight 
at  it  at  present ; and  I have  only  to  ask  under  what  limi- 
tations I am  to  conceive  or  describe  your  final  success? 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


101 


Or  shall  there  be  no  limitations  ? There  are  none  to  your 
powers ; every  day  puts  new  machinery  at  your  disposal, 
and  increases,  with  your  capital,  the  vastness  of  your 
undertakings.  The  changes  in  the  state  of  this  country 
are  now  so  rapid,  that  it  would  be  wholly  absurd  to  endea- 
vour to  lay  down  laws  of  art  education  for  it  under  its 
present  aspect  and  circumstances ; and  therefore  I must 
necessarily  ask,  how  much  of  it  do  you  seriously  intend 
within  the  next  fifty  years  to  be  coal-pit,  brickfield,  or 
quarry  ? For  the  sake  of  distinctness  of  conclusion,  I will 
suppose  your  success  absolute : that  from  shore  to  shore 
the  whole  of  the  island  is  to  be  set  as  thick  with  chimneys 
as  the  masts  stand  in  the  docks  of  Liverpool  : that  there 
shall  be  no  meadows  in  it ; no  trees  ; no  gardens ; only  a 
little  corn  grown  upon  the  housetops,  reaped  and  threshed 
by  steam : that  you  do  not  leave  even  room  for  roads,  but 
travel  either  over  the  roofs  of  your  mills,  on  viaducts ; or 
under  their  floors,  in  tunnels : that,  the  smoke  having  ren- 
dered the  light  of  the  sun  unserviceable,  you  work  always 
by  the  light  of  your  own  gas:  that  no  acre  of  English 
ground  shall  be  without  its  shaft  and  its  engine  ; and  there- 
fore, no  spot  of  English  ground  left,  on  which  it  shall  be 
possible  to  stand,  without  a definite  and  calculable  chance 
of  being  blown  off  it,  at  any  moment,  into  small  pieces. 

Under  these  circumstances,  (if  this  is  to  be  the  future  of 
England,)  no  designing  or  any  other  development  of 
beautiful  art  will  be  possible.  Do  not  vex  your  minds, 


102 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


nor  waste  your  money  with  any  thought  or  effort  in  the 
matter.  Beautiful  art  can  only  be  produced  by  people  who 
have  beautiful  things  about  them,  and  leisure  to  look  at 
them  ; and  unless  you  provide  some  elements  of  beauty  for 
your  workmen  to  be  surrounded  by,  you  will  find  that  no 
elements  of  beauty  can  be  invented  by  them. 

e 

I was  struck  forcibly  by  the  bearing  of  this^  great  fact 
upon  our  modern  efforts  at  ornamentation  in  an  afternoon 
walk,  last  week,  in  the  suburbs  of  one  of  our  large  manu- 
facturing towns.  I was  thinking  of  the  difference  in  the 
effect  upon  the  designer’s  mind,  between  the  scene  which 
I then  came  upon,  and  the  scene  which  would  have 
presented  itself  to  the  eyes  of  any  designer  of  the  middle 
ages,  when  he  left  his  workshop.  Just  outside  the  town 
I came  upon  an  old  English  cottage,  or  mansion,  I 
hardly  know  which  to  call  it,  set  close  under  the  hill,  and 
beside  the  river,  perhaps  built  somewhere  in  the  Charles’s 
times,  with  mullioned  windows  and  a low  arched  porch  ; 
round  which,  in  the  little  triangular  garden,  one  can  ima- 
gine the  family  as  they  used  to  sit  in  old  summer  times, 
the  ripple  of  the  river  heard  faintly  through  the  sweetbriar 
hedge,  and  the  sheep  on  the  far-off  wolds  shining  in  the 
evening  sunlight.  There,  uninhabited  for  many  and  many 
a year,  it  had  been  left  in  unregarded  havoc  of  ruin  ; 
the  garden-gate  still  swung  loose  to  its  latch  ; the  garden, 
blighted  utterly  into  a field  of  ashes,  not  even  a weed 
taking  root  there  ; the  roof  torn  into  shapeless  rents  ; the 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


1C3 


shutters  hanging  about  the  windows  in  rags  of  rotten 
wood ; before  its  gate,  the  stream  which  had  gladdened  it 
now  soaking  slowly  by,  black  as  ebony,  and  thick  with 
curdling  scum ; the  bank  above  it  trodden  into  unctuous, 
sooty  slime : far  in  front  of  it,  between  it  and  the  old  hills, 
the  furnaces  of  the  city  foaming  forth  perpetual  plague  of 
sulphurous  darkness ; the  volumes  of  their  storm  clouds 
coiling  low  over  a waste  of  grassless  fields,  fenced  from 
each  other,  not  by  hedges,  but  by  slabs  of  square  stone, 
like  gravestones,  riveted  together  with  iron. 

That  was  your  scene  for  the  designer’s  contemplation  in  his 
afternoon  walk  at  Rochdale.  Now  fancy  what  was  the  scene 
which  presented  itself,  in  his  afternoon  walk,  to  a designer  of 
the  Gothic  school- of  Pisa — Nino  Pisano,  or  any  of  his  men. 

On  each  side  of  a bright  river  he  saw  rise  a line  of 
brighter  palaces,  arched  and  pillared,  and  inlaid  with  deep 
red  porphyry,  and  with  serpentine ; along  the  quays  be- 
fore their  gates  were  riding  troops  of  knights,  noble  in  face 
and  form,  dazzling  in  crest  and  shield ; horse  and  man  one 
labyrinth  of  quaint  colour  and  gleaming  light — the  purple, 
and  silver,  and  scarlet  fringes  flowing  over  the  strong  limbs 
and  clashing  mail,  like  sea- waves  over  rocks  at  sunset. 
Opening  on  each  side  from  the  river  were  gardens,  courts, 
and  cloisters ; long  successions  of  white  pillars  among 
wreaths  of  vine ; leaping  of  fountains  through  buds  of 
pomegranate  and  orange : and  still  along  the  garden-paths, 
and  under  and  through  the  crimson  of  the  pomegranate 


104 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


shadows,  moving  slowly,  groups  of  the  fairest  women  that 
Italy  ever  saw — fairest,  because  purest  and  thoughtfullest ; 
trained  in  all  high  knowledge,  as  in  all  courteous  art — in 
dance,  in  song,  in  sweet  wit,  in  lofty  learning,  in  loftier 
courage,  in  loftiest  love — able  alike  to  cheer,  to  enchant,  or 
save,  the  souls  of  men.  Above  all  this  scenery  of  perfect 
human  life,  rose  dome  and  bell-tower,  burning  with  white 
alabaster  and  gold  ; beyond  dome  and  bell-tower  the  slopes 
of  mighty  hills,  hoary  with  olive ; far  in  the  north,  above 
a purple  sea  of  peaks  of  solemn  Apennine,  the  clear,  sharp- 
cloven  Carrara  mountains  sent  up  their  steadfast  flames  of 
marble  summit  into  amber  sky ; the  great  sea  itself,  scorch- 
ing with  expanse  of  light,  stretching  from  their  feet  to  the 
Gorgonian  isles ; and  over  all  these,  ever  present,  near  or 
far — seen  through  the  leaves  of  vine,  or  imaged  with  all 
its  march  of  clouds  in  the  Arno’s  stream,  or  set  with  its 
depth  of  blue  close  against  the  golden  hair  and  burning 
cheek  of  lady  and  knight, — that  untroubled  and  sacred 
sky,  which  was  to  all  men,  in  those  days  of  innocent  faith, 
indeed  the  unquestioned  abode  of  spirits,  as  the  earth  was 
of  men ; and  which  opened  straight  through  its  gates  of 
cloud  and  veils  of  dew  into  the  awfulness  of  the  eternal 
world ; — a heaven  in  which  every  cloud  that  passed  was 
literally  the  chariot  of  an  angel,  and  every  ray  of  its  Eve- 
ning and  Morning  streamed  from  the  throne  of  God. 

What  think  you  of  that  for  a school  of  design  ? 

I do  not  bring  this  contrast  before  you  as  a ground  of 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


105 


hopelessness  in  our  task  ; neither  do  I look  for  any  possible 
renovation  of  the  Republic  of  Pisa,  at  Bradford,  in  the 
nineteenth  century ; but  I put  it  before  you  in  order  that 
you  may  be  aware  precisely  of  the  kind  of  difficulty  you 
have  to  meet,  and  may  then  consider  with  yourselves  how 
far  you  can  meet  it.  To  men  surrounded  by  the  depressing 
and  monotonous  circumstances  of  English  manufacturing 
life,  depend  upon  it,  design  is  simply  impossible.  This  is 
the  most  distinct  of  all  the  experiences  I have  had  in  deal- 
ing with  the  modern  workman.  He  is  intelligent  and 
ingenious  in  the  highest  degree — subtle  in  touch  and  keen 
in  sight : but  he  is,  generally  speaking,  wholly  destitute  of 
designing  power.  And  if  you  want  to  give  him  the  power, 
you  must  give  him  the  materials,  and  put  him  in  the  cir- 
cumstances for  it.  Design  is  not  the  offspring  of  idle 
fancy : it  is  the  studied  result  of  accumulative  observation 
and  delightful  habit.  Without  observation  and  experience, 
no  design — without  peace  and  pleasurableness  in  occupa- 
tion, no  design — and  all  the  lecturings,  and  teachings,  and 
prizes,  and  principles  of  art,  in  the  world,  are  of  no  use,  so 
long  as  you  don’t  surround  your  men  with  happy  influences 
and  beautiful  things.  It  is  impossible  for  them  to  have 
right  ideas  about  colour,  unless  they  see  the  lovely  colours 
of  nature  unspoiled ; impossible  for  them  to  supply  beauti- 
ful incident  and  action  in  their  ornament,  unless  they  see 
beautiful  incident  and  action  in  the  world  about  them. 
Inform  their  minds,  refine  their  habits,  and  you  form  and 

5* 


106 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


refine  their  designs ; but  keep  them  illiterate,  uncomfortable, 
and  in  the  midst  of  unbeautiful  things,  and  whatever  they 
do  will  still  be  spurious,  vulgar,  and  valueless. 

I repeat,  that  I do  not  ask  you  nor  wish  you  to  build  a 
new  Pisa  for  them.  We  don’t  want  either  the  life  or  the 
decorations  of  the  thirteenth  century  back  again ; and  the 
circumstances  with  which  you  must  surround  your  work- 
men are  those  simply  of  happy  modern  English  life,  be- 
cause the  designs  you  have  now  to  ask  for  from  your 
workmen  are  such  as  will  make  modern  English  life  beau- 
tiful. All  that  gorgeousness  of  the  middle  ages,  beautiful 
as  it  sounds  in  description,  noble  as  in  many  respects  it  was 
in  reality,  had,  nevertheless,  for  foundation  and  for  end, 
nothing  but  the  pride  of  life — the  pride  of  the  so-called 
superior  classes ; a pride  which  supported  itself  by  violence 
and  robbery,  and  led  in  the  end  to  the  destruction  both 
of  the  arts  themselves  and  the  States  in  which  they 
flourished. 

The  great  lesson  of  history  is,  that  all  the  fine  arts 
hitherto — having  been  supported  by  the  selfish  power  of 
the  noblesse,  and  never  having  extended  their  range  to  the 
comfort  or  the  relief  of  the  mass  of  the  people — the  arts,  I 
say,  thus  practised,  and  thus  matured,  have  only  accelerated 
the  ruin  of  the  States  they  adorned ; and  at  the  moment 
when,  in  any  kingdom,  you  point  to  the  triumphs  of  its 
greatest  artists,  you  point  also  to  the  determined  hour  of 
the  kingdom’s  decline.  The  names  of  great  painters  are 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


107 


like  passing  bells:  in  the  name  of  Velasquez,  you  hear 
sounded  the  fall  of  Spain ; in  the  name  of  Titian,  that  of 
Venice;  in  the  name  of  Leonardo,  that  of  Milan;  in  the 
name  of  Raphael,  that  of  Rome.  And  there  is  profound 
justice  in  this ; for  in  proportion  to  the  nobleness  of  the 
power  is  the  guilt  of  its  use  for  purposes  vain  or  vile ; and 
hitherto  the  greater  the  art,  the  more  surely  has  it  been 
used,  and  used  solely,  for  the  decoration  of  pride,*  or  the 
provoking  of  sensuality.  Another  course  lies  open  to  us. 
We  may  abandon  the  hope — or  if  you  like  the  words 
better — we  may  disdain  the  temptation,  of  the  pomp  and 
grace  of  Italy  in  her  youth.  For  us  there  can  be  no  more 
the  throne  of  marble — for  us  no  more  the  vault  of  gold — 
but  for  us  there  is  the  loftier  and  lovelier  privilege  of  bring- 
ing the  power  and  charm  of  art  within  the  reach  of  the 
humble  and  the  poor;  and  as  the  magnificence  of  past 
ages  failed  by  its  narrowness  and  its  pride,  ours  may  pre- 
vail and  continue,  by  its  universality  and  its  lowliness. 

And  thus,  between  the  picture  of  too  laborious  England, 
which  we  imagined  as  future,  and  the  picture  of  too  luxu- 
rious Italy,  which  we  remember  in  the  past,  there  may 
exist — there  will  exist,  if  we  do  our  duty — an  intermediate 
condition,  neither  oppressed  by  labour  nor  wasted  in  vanity 
— the  condition  of  a peaceful  and  thoughtful  temperance  in 
aims,  and  acts,  and  arts. 

* Whether  religious  or  profane  pride, — chapel  or  banqueting  room, — 
is  no  matter. 


108 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE 


[LECT.  III. 


We  are  about  to  enter  upon  a period  of  our  world’s  his- 
tory in  which  domestic  life,  aided  by  the  arts  of  peace, 
will  slowly,  but  at  last  entirely,  supersede  public  life  and 
the  arts  of  war.  For  our  own  England,  she  will  not,  I 
believe,  be  blasted  throughout  with  furnaces  ; nor  will  she  be 
encumbered  with  palaces.  I trust  she  will  keep  her  green 
fields,  her  cottages,  and  her  homes  of  middle  life ; but  these 
ought  to  be,  and  I trust  will  be  enriched  with  a useful, 
truthful,  substantial  form  of  art.  We  want  now  no  more 
feasts  of  the  gods,  nor  martyrdoms  of  the  saints  ; we  have 
no  need  of  sensuality,  no  place  for  superstition,  or  for  costly 
insolence.  Let  us  have  learned  and  faithful  historical  paint- 
ing— touching  and  thoughtful  representations  of  human 
nature,  in  dramatic  painting ; poetical  and  familiar  renderings 
of  natural  objects  and  of  landscape  ; and  rational,  deeply- 
felt  realizations  of  the  events  which  are  the  subjects  of  our 
religious  faith.  And  let  these  things  we  want,  as  far  as 
possible,  be  scattered  abroad  and  made  accessible  to  all 
men. 

So  also,  in  manufacture : we  require  work  substantial 
rather  than  rich  in  make ; and  refined,  rather  than  splen- 
did in  design.  Your  stuffs  need  not  be  such  as  would 
catch  the  eye  of  a duchess ; but  they  should  be  such  as  may 
at  once  serve  the  need,  and  refine  the  taste,  of  a cottager. 
The  prevailing  error  in  English  dress,  especially  among  the 
lower  orders,  is  a tendency  to  flimsiness  and  gaudiness, 
arising  mainly  from  the  awkward  imitation  of  their  supe- 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


109 


riors.*  It  should  be  one  of  the  first  objects  of  all  manu- 
facturers to  produce  stuffs  not  only  beautiful  and  quaint  in 
design,  but  also  adapted  for  every-day  service,  and  deco- 
rous in  humble  and  secluded  life.  And  you  must  remem- 
ber always  that  your  business,  as  manufacturers,  is  to  form 
the  market,  as  much  as  to  supply  it.  If,  in  shortsighted 
and  reckless  eagerness  for  wealth,  you  catch  at  every 
humour  of  the  populace  as  it  shapes  itself  into  momentary 
demand — if,  in  jealous  rivalry  with  neighbouring  States,  or 
with  other  producers,  you  try  to  attract  attention  by  singu- 
larities, novelties,  and  gaudinesses — to  make  every  design  an 

* If  tlieir  superiors  would  give  them  simplicity  and  economy  to 
imitate,  it  would,  in  the  issue,  be  well  for  themselves,  as  well  as  for 
those  whom  they  guide.  The  typhoid  fever  of  passion  for  dress,  and  all 
other  display,  which  has  struck  the  upper  classes  of  .Europe  at  this 
time,  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous  political  elements  we  have  to  deal 
with.  Its  wickedness  I have  shown  elsewhere  (Polit.  Economy  of 
Art,  p.  62,  et  seq.) ; but  its  wickedness  is,  in  the  minds  of  most  per- 
sons, a matter  of  no  importance.  I wish  I had  time  also  to  show  them 
its  danger.  I cannot  enter  here  into  political  investigation ; but  this 
is  a certain  fact,  that  the  wasteful  and  vain  expenses  at  present 
indulged  in  by  the  upper  classes  are  hastening  the  advance  of  republican- 
ism more  than  any  other  element  of  modern  change.  No  agitators, 
no  clubs,  no  epidemical  errors,  ever  were,  or  will  be,  fatal  to  social 
order  in  any  nation.  Nothing  but  the  guilt  of  the  upper  classes,  wan- 
ton, accumulated,  reckless,  and  merciless,  ever  overthrows  them.  Of 
such  guilt  they  have  now  much  to  answer  for — let  them  look  to  it  in 
time. 


110 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE. 


[LECT.  III. 


advertisement,  and  pilfer  every  idea  of  a successful  neigh- 
bour’s, that  you  may  insidiously  imitate  it,  or  pompously 
eclipse — no  good  design  will  ever  be  possible  to  you,  or 
perceived  by  you.  You  may,  by  accident,  snatch  the  mar- 
ket ; or,  by  energy,  command  it ; you  may  obtain  the  con- 
fidence of  the  public,  and  cause  the  ruin  of  opponent  houses ; 
or  you  may,  with  equal  justice  of  fortune,  be  ruined  by 
them.  But  whatever  happens  to  you,  this,  at  least,  is  cer- 
tain, that  the  whole  of  your  life  will  have  been  spent  in 
corrupting  public  taste  and  encouraging  public  extrava- 
gance. Every  preference  you  have  won  by  gaudiness  must 
have  been  based  on  the  purchaser’s  vanity ; every  demand 
you  have  created  by  novelty  has  fostered  in  the  consumer 
a habit  of  discontent ; and  when  you  retire  into  inactive 
life,  you  may,  as  a subject  of  consolation  for  your  declining 
years,  reflect  that  precisely  according  to  the  extent  of  your 
past  operations,  your  life  has  been  successful  in  retarding 
the  arts,  tarnishing  the  virtues,  and  confusing  the  manners 
of  your  country. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  resolve  from  the  first  that, 
so  far  as  you  can  ascertain  or  discern  what  is  best,  you  will 
produce  what  is  best,  on  an  intelligent  consideration  of  the 
probable  tendencies  and  possible  tastes  of  the  people  whom 
you  supply,  you  may  literally  become  more  influential  for 
all  kinds  of  good  than  many  lecturers  on  art,  or  many  trea- 
tise-writers on  morality.  Considering  the  materials  dealt 
with,  and  the  crude  state  of  art  knowledge  at  the  time,  I 


LECT.  III.] 


AND  DESIGN. 


Ill 


do  not  know  that  any  more  wide  or  effective  influence  in 
public  taste  was  ever  exercised  than  that  of  the  Stafford- 
shire manufacture  of  pottery  under  William  Wedgwood; 
and  it  only  rests  with  the  manufacturer  in  every  other  busi- 
ness to  determine  whether  he  will,  in  like  manner,  make  his 
wares  educational  instruments,  or  mere  drugs  of  the  market. 
You  all  should  be,  in  a certain  sense,  authors:  you  must, 
indeed,  first  catch  the  public  eye,  as  an  author  must  the  pub- 
lic ear ; but  once  gain  your  audience,  or  observance,  and  as 
it  is  in  the  writer’s  power  thenceforward  to  publish  what  will 
educate  as  it  amuses — so  it  is  in  yours  to  publish  what  will 
educate  as  it  adorns.  Nor  is  this  surely  a subject  of  poor 
ambition.  I hear  it  said  continually  that  men  are  too  am- 
bitious : alas ! to  me,  it  seems  they  are  never  enough  ambi- 
tious. How  many  are  content  to  be  merely  the  thriving 
merchants  of  a state,  when  they  might  be  its  guides,  coun- 
sellors, and  rulers — wielding  powers  of  subtle  but  gigantic 
beneficence,  in  restraining  its  follies  while  they  supplied  its 
wants.  Let  such  duty,  such  ambition,  be  once  accepted  in 
their  fulness,  and  the  best  glory  of  European  art  and  of 
European  manufacture  may  yet  be  to  come.  The  paintings 
of  Raphael  and  of  Buonaroti  gave  force  to  the  falsehoods 
of  superstition,  and  majesty  to  the  imaginations  of  sin  ; but 
the  arts  of  England  may  have,  for  their  task,  to  inform  the 
soul  with  truth,  and  touch  the  heart  with  compassion.  The 
steel  of  Toledo  and  the  silk  of  Genoa  did  but  give  strength 
to  oppression  and  lustre  to  pride : let  it  be  for  the  furnace 


112 


MODERN  MANUFACTURE,  ETC.  [LECT.  III. 


and  for  the  loom  of  England,  as  they  have  already  richly 
earned,  still  more  abundantly  to  bestow,  comfort  on  the 
indigent,  civilization  on  the  rude,  and  to  dispense,  through 
the  peaceful  homes  of  nations,  the  grace  and  the  precious- 
ness of  simple  adornment,  and  useful  possession. 


LECTURE  IY. 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 

AN  ADDRESS 

Delivered  to  the  Members  of  the  Architectural  Association,  in  Lyon's 

Inn  Hall , 1851. 

If  we  were  to  be  asked  abruptly,  and  required  to  answer 
briefly,  wbat  qualities  chiefly  distinguish  great  artists  from 
feeble  artists,  we  should  answer,  I suppose,  first,  their  sen- 
sibility and  tenderness;  secondly,  their  imagination;  and 
thirdly,  their  industry.  Some  of  us  might,  perhaps,  doubt 
the  justice  of  attaching  so  much  importance  to  this  last 
character,  because  we  have  all  known  clever  men  who 
were  indolent,  and  dull  men  who  were  industrious.  But 
though  you  may  have  known  clever  men  who  were 
indolent,  you  never  knew  a great  man  who  was  so ; and, 
during  such  investigation  as  I have  been  able  to  give  to 
the  lives  of  the  artists  whose  works  are  in  all  points 
noblest,  no  fact  ever  looms  so  large  upon  me — no  law  re- 
mains so  steadfast  in  the  universality  of  its  application,  as 
the  fact  and  law  that  they  are  all  great  workers : nothing 
concerning  them  is  matter  of  more  astonishment  than  the 
quantity  they  have  accomplished  in  the  given  length  of 
their  life;  and  when  I hear  a young  man  spoken  of,  as 


114 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


giving  promise  of  high  genius,  the  first  question  I ask 
about  him  is  always — 

Does  he  work  ? 

But  though  this  quality  of  industry  is  essential  to  an 
artist,  it  does  not  in  anywise  make  an  artist ; many  people  are 
busy,  whose  doings  are  little  worth.  Neither  does  sensibi- 
lity make  an  artist ; since,  as  I hope,  many  can  feel  both 
strongly  and  nobly,  who  yet  care  nothing  about  art.  But 
the  gifts  which  distinctively  mark  the  artist — without  which 
he  must  be  feeble  in  life,  forgotten  in  death — with  which  he 
may  become  one  of  the  shakers  of  the  earth,  and  one  of 
the  signal  lights  in  heaven — are  those  of  sympathy  and 
imagination.  I will  not  occupy  your  time,  nor  incur  the 
risk  of  your  dissent,  by  endeavouring  to  give  any  close 
definition  of  this  last  word.  We  all  have  a general  and 
sufficient  idea  of  imagination,  and  of  its  work  with  our 
hands  and  in  our  hearts : we  understand  it,  I suppose,  as 
the  imaging  or  picturing  of  new  things  in  our  thoughts; 
and  we  always  show  an  involuntary  respect  for  this  power, 
wherever  we  can  recognise  it,  acknowledging  it  to  be  a 
greater  power  than  manipulation,  or  calculation,  or  observa- 
tion, or  any  other  human  faculty.  If  we  see  an  old  woman 
spinning  at  the  fireside,  and  distributing  her  thread  dexter- 
ously from  the  distaff,  we  respect  her  for  her  manipula- 
tion— if  we  ask  her  how  much  she  expects  to  make  in  a 
year,  and  she  answers  quickly,  we  respect  her  for  her  cal- 
culation—if  she  is  watching  at  the  same  time  that  none  of 


LECT.  IV.] 


IN  AKCHITECTUKE. 


115 


her  grandchildren  fall  into  the  fire,  we  respect  her  for  her 
observation — yet  for  all  this  she  may  still  be  a common- 
place old  woman  enough.  But  if  she  is  all  the  time  telling 
her  grandchildren  a fairy  tale  out  of  her  head,  we  praise 
her  for  her  imagination,  and  say,  she  must  be  a rather 
remarkable  old  woman. 

Precisely  in  like  manner,  if  an  architect  does  his  work- 
ing-drawing well,  we  praise  him  for  his  manipulation — if 
he  keeps  closely  within  his  contract,  we  praise  him  for  his 
honest  arithmetic — if  he  looks  well  to  the  laying  of  his 
beams,  so  that  nobody  shall  drop  through  the  floor,  we 
praise  him  for  his  observation.  But  he  must,  somehow,  tell 
us  a fairy  tale  out  of  his  head  beside  all  this,  else  we  can- 
not praise  him  for  his  imagination,  nor  speak  of  him  as  we 
did  of  the  old  woman,  as  being  in  any  wise  out  of  the  com- 
mon way,  a rather  remarkable  architect.  It  seemed  to  me, 
therefore,  as  if  it  might  interest  you  to-night,  if  we  were  to 
consider  together  what  fairy  tales  are,  in  and  by  architecture, 
to  be  told — what  there  is  for  you  to  do  in  this  severe  art  of 
yours  “ out  of  your  heads,”  as  well  as  by  your  hands. 

Perhaps  the  first  idea  which  a young  architect  is  apt  to 
be  allured  by,  as  a head-problem  in  these  experimental  days, 
is  its  being  incumbent  upon  him  to  invent  a “ new  style” 
worthy  of  modern  civilization  in  general,  and  of  England 
in  particular  ; a style  worthy  of  our  engines  and  telegraphs  ; 
as  expansive  as  steam,  and  as  sparkling  as  electricity. 

But,  if  there  are  any  of  my  hearers  who  have  been  im- 


116 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IY. 


pressed  with,  this  sense  of  inventive  duty,  may  I ask  them, 
first,  whether  their  plan  is  that  every  inventive  architect 
among  ns  shall  invent  a new  style  for  himself,  and  have  a 
county  set  aside  for  his  conceptions,  or  a province  for  his 
practice  ? Or,  must  every  architect  invent  a little  piece  of 
the  new  style,  and  all  put  it  together  at  last  like  a dissected 
map  ? And  if  so,  when  the  new  style  is  invented,  what  is 
to  be  done  next  ? I will  grant  you  this  Eldorado  of  ima- 
gination— but  can  you  have  more  than  one  Columbus  ? 
Or,  if  you  sail  in  company,  and  divide  the  prize  of  your 
discovery  and  the  honour  thereof,  who  is  to  come  after  you 
clustered  Columbuses  ? to  what  fortunate  islands  of  style 
are  your  architectural  descendants  to  sail,  avaricious  of  new 
lands  ? When  our  desired  style  is  invented,  will  not  the  best 
we  can  all  do  be  simply — to  build  in  it  ?— and  cannot  you 
now  do  that  in  styles  that  are  known  ? Observe,  I grant, 
for  the  sake  of  your  argument,  what  perhaps  many  of  you 
know  that  1 would  not  grant  otherwise — that  a new  style 
can  be  invented.  I grant  you  not  only  this,  but  that  it 
shall  be  wholly  different  from  any  that  was  ever  practised 
before.  We  will  suppose  that  capitals  are  to  be  at  the  bot- 
tom of  pillars  instead  of  the  top ; and  that  buttresses  shall 
be  on  the  tops  of  pinnacles  instead  of  at  the  bottom ; that 
you  roof  your  apertures  with  stones  which  shall  neither  be 
arched  nor  horizontal ; and  that  you  compose  your  decora- 
tion of  lines  which  shall  neither  be  crooked  nor  straight. 
The  furnace  and  the  forge  shall  be  at  your  service : you 


LECT.  IV.] 


IK  ARCHITECTURE. 


117 


shall  draw  out  your  plates  of  glass  and  beat  out  your  bars 
of  iron  till  you  have  encompassed  us  all, — if  your  style  is 
of  the  practical  kind, — with  endless  perspective  of  black 
skeleton  and  blinding  square, — or  if  your  style  is  to  be  of 
the  ideal  kind — you  shall  wreath  your  streets  with  ductile 
leafage,  and  roof  them  with  variegated  crystal — you  shall 
put,  if  you  will,  all  London  under  one  blazing  dome  of 
many  colours  that  shall  light  the  clouds  round  it  with  its 
flashing,  as  far  as  to  the  sea.  And  still,  I ask  you,  What 
after  this  ? Do  you  suppose  those  imaginations  of  yours 
will  ever  lie  down  there  asleep  beneath  the  shade  of  your 
iron  leafage,  or  within  the  coloured  light  of  your  enchanted 
dome  ? Not  so.  Those  souls,  and  fancies,  and  ambitions 
of  yours,  are  wholly  infinite ; and,  whatever  may  be  done 
by  others,  you  will  still  want  to  do  something  for  your- 
selves ; if  you  cannot  rest  content  with  Palladio,  neither 
will  you  with  Paxton : all  the  metal  and  glass  that  ever 
were  melted  have  not  so  much  weight  in  them  as  will  clog 
the  wings  of  one  human  spirit’s  aspiration. 

If  you  will  think  over  this  quietly  by  yourselves,  and 
can  get  the  noise  out  of  your  ears  of  the  perpetual,  empty, 
idle,  incomparably  idiotic  talk  about  the  necessity  of  some 
novelty  in  architecture,  you  will  soon  see  that  the  very 
essence  of  a Style,  properly  so  called,  is  that  it  should  be 
practised  for  ages , and  applied  to  all  purposes  ; and  that  so 
long  as  any  given  style  is  in  practice,  all  that  is  left  for 
individual  imagination  to  accomplish  must  be  within  the 


118 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IY. 


scope  of  that  style,  not  in  the  invention  of  a new  one.  If 
there  are  any  here,  therefore,  who  hope  to  obtain  celebrity 
by  the  invention  of  some  strange  way  of  building  which 
must  convince  all  Europe  into  its  adoption,  to  them,  for  the 
moment,  I must  not  be  understood  to  address  myself,  but 
only  to  those  who  would  be  content  with  that  degree  of 
celebrity  which  an  artist  may  enjoy  who  works  in  the 
manner  of  his  forefathers which  the  builder  of  Salisbury 
Cathedral  might  enjoy  in  England,  though  he  did  not 
invent  Gothic;  and  which  Titian  might  enjoy  at  Venice, 
though  he  did  not  invent  oil  painting.  Addressing  myself 
then  to  those  humbler,  but  wiser,  or  rather,  only  wise  stu- 
dents who  are  content  to  avail  themselves  of  some  system 
of  building  already  understood,  let  us  consider  together 
what  room  for  the  exercise  of  the  imagination  may  be  left 
to  us  under  such  conditions.  And,  first,  I suppose  it  will 
be  said,  or  thought,  that  the  architect’s  principal  field  for 
exercise  of  his  invention  must  be  in  the  disposition  of 
lines,  mouldings,  and  masses,  in  agreeable  proportions. 
Indeed,  if  you  adopt  some  styles  of  architecture,  you  can- 
not exercise  invention  in  any  other  way.  And  I admit 
that  it  requires  genius  and  special  gift  to  do  this  rightly. 
Not  by  rule,  nor  by  study,  can  the  gift  of  graceful  propor- 
tionate design  be  obtained  ; only  by  the  intuition  of  genius 
can  so  much  as  a single  tier  of  fa9ade  be  beautifully 
arranged ; and  the  man  has  just  cause  for  pride,  as  far  as 
our  gifts  can  ever  be  a cause  for  pride,  who  finds  himself 


LECT.  IV.] 


IH  ARCHITECTURE. 


119 


able,  in  a design  of  bis  own,  to  rival  even  the  simplest 
arrangement  of  parts  in  one  by  Sanmicheli,  Inigo  Jones,  or 
Christopher  Wren. 

Invention,  then,  and  genius  being  granted,  as  necessary 
to  accomplish  this,  let  me  ask  you,  What,  after  all,  with 
this  special  gift  and  genius,  you  have  accomplished,  when 
you  have  arranged  the  lines  of  a building  beautifully? 

In  the  first  place  you  will  not,  I think,  tell  me  that  the 
beauty  there  attained  is  of  a touching  or  pathetic  kind. 
A well-disposed  group  of  notes  in  music  will  make  you 
sometimes  weep  and  sometimes  laugh.  You  can  express 
the  depth  of  all  affections  by  those  dispositions  of  sound ; 
you  can  give  courage  to  the  soldier,  language  to  the  lover, 
consolation  to  the  mourner,  more  joy  to  the  joyful,  more 
humility  to  the  devout.  Can  you  do  as  much  by  your 
group  of  lines  ? Do  you  suppose  the  front  of  Whitehall,  a 
singularly  beautiful  one,  ever  inspires  the  two  Horse  Guards, 
during  the  hour  they  sit  opposite  to  it,  with  military  ar- 
dour ? Do  you  think  that  the  lovers  in  our  London  walk 
down  to  the  front  of  Whitehall  for  consolation  when  mis- 
tresses are  unkind  ; or  that  any  person  wavering  in  duty, 
or  feeble  in  faith,  was  ever  confirmed  in  purpose  or  in  creed 
by  the  pathetic  appeal  of  those  harmonious  architraves  ? 
You  will  not  say  so.  Then,  if  they  cannot  touch,  or 
inspire,  or  comfort  any  one,  can  your  architectural  propor- 
tions amuse  any  one  ? Christmas  is  just  over  ; you  have 
doubtless  been  at  many  merry  parties  during  the  period. 


120 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


Can  you  remember  any  in  which,  architectural  proportions 
contributed  to  the  entertainment  of  the  evening  ? Propor- 
tions of  notes  in  music  were,  I am  sure,  essential  to  your 
amusement;  the  setting  of  flowers  in  hair,  and  of  ribands  on 
dresses,  were  also  subjects  of  frequent  admiration  with  you, 
not  inessential  to  your  happiness.  Among  the  juvenile 
members  of  your  society  the  proportion  of  currants  in  cake, 
and  of  sugar  in  comfits,  became  subjects  of  acute  interest ; 
and,  when  such  proportions  were  harmonious,  motives  also 
of  gratitude  to  cook  and  to  confectioner.  But  did  you  ever 
see  either  young  or  old  amused  by  the  architrave  of  the 
door  ? Or  otherwise  interested  in  the  proportions  of  the 
room  than  as  they  admitted  more  or  fewer  friendly  faces  ? 
Nay,  if  all  the  amusement  that  there  is  in  the  best  propor- 
tioned architecture  of  London  could  be  concentrated  into 
one  evening,  and  you  were  to  issue  tickets  for  nothing  to 
this  great  proportional  entertainment ; — how  do  you  think 
it  would  stand  between  you  and  the  Drury  pantomime  ? 

You  are,  then,  remember,  granted  to  be  people  of  genius 
— great  and  admirable  ; and  you  devote  your  lives  to  your 

art,  but  you  admit  that  you  cannot  comfort  anybody,  you 
cannot  encourage  anybody,  you  cannot  improve  anybody, 
and  you  cannot  amuse  anybody.  I proceed  then  farther  to 

ask,  Can  you  inform  anybody  ? Many  sciences  cannot  be 
considered  as  highly  touching  or  emotional ; nay,  perhaps  not 
specially  amusing ; scientific  men  may  sometimes,  in  these 
respects,  stand  on  the  same  ground  with  you.  As  far  as  we 


LECT.  IV.] 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


121 


can  judge  by  the  results  of  the  late  war,  science  helps  our 
soldiers  about  as  much  as  the  front  of  Whitehall ; and  at  the 
Christmas  parties,  the  children  wanted  no  geologists  to  tell 
them  about  the  behaviour  of  bears  and  dragons  in  Queen 
Elizabeth’s  time.  Still,  your  man  of  science  teaches  you 
something ; he  may  be  dull  at  a party,  or  helpless  in  a battle, 
he  is  not  always  that ; but  he  can  give  you,  at  all  events, 
knowledge  of  noble  facts,  and  open  to  you  the  secrets  of  the 
earth  and  air.  Will  your  architectural  proportions  do  as 
much  ? Your  genius  is  granted,  and  your  life  is  given,  and 
what  do  you  teach  us  ? — Nothing,  I believe,  from  one  end 
of  that  life  to  the  other,  but  that  two  and  two  make  four, 
and  that  one  is  to  two  as  three  is  to  six. 

You  cannot,  then,  it  is  admitted,  comfort  any  one,  serve 
or  amuse  any  one,  nor  teach  any  one.  Finally,  I ask,  Can 
you  be  of  Use  to  any  one  ? “ Yes,”  you  reply ; “ certainly 

we  are  of  some  use — we  architects — in  a climate  like  this, 
where  it  always  rains.”  You  are  of  use  certainly ; but, 
pardon  me,  only  as  builders — not  as  proportionalists.  We 
are  not  talking  of  building  as  a protection,  but  only  of  that 
special  work  which  your  genius  is  to  do ; not  of  building 
substantial  and  comfortable  houses  like  Mr.  Cubitt,  but  of 
putting  beautiful  fagades  on  them  like  Inigo  Jones.  And, 
again,  I ask — Are  you  of  use  to  any  one?  Will  your 
proportions  of  fagade  heal  the  sick,  or  clothe  the  naked  ? 
Supposing  you  devoted  your  lives  to  be  merchants,  you  might 

reflect  at  the  close  of  them,  how  many,  fainting  for  want, 

(> 


122 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION 


[LECT.  IV. 


you  had  brought  corn  to  sustain ; how  many,  infected  with 
disease,  you  had  brought  balms  to  heal ; how  widely, 
among  multitudes  of  far-away  nations,  you  had  scattered 
the  first  seeds  of  national  power,  and  guided  the  first  rays 
of  sacred  light.  Had  you  been,  in  fine,  anything  else  in  the 
world  but  architectural  designers,  you  might  have  been  of 
some  use  or  good  to  people.  Content  to  be  petty  tradesmen, 
you  would  have  saved  the  time  of  mankind ; — rough-handed 
daily  labourers,  you  would  have  added  to  their  stock  of 
food  or  of  clothing.  But,  being  men  of  genius,  and  devot- 
ing your  lives  to  the  exquisite  exposition  of  this  genius, 
on  what  achievements  do  you  think  the  memories  of  your 
old  age  are  to  fasten  ? Whose  gratitude  will  surround  you 
with  its  glow,  or  on  what  accomplished  good,  of  that  greatest 
kind  for  which  men  show  no  gratitude,  will  your  life  rest 
the  contentment  of  its  close  ? Truly,  I fear  that  the  ghosts 
of  proportionate  lines  will  be  thin  phantoms  at  your  bed- 
sides— very  speechless  to  you;  and  that  on  all  the 
emanations  of  your  high  genius  you  will  look  back  with 
less  delight  than  you  might  have  done  on  a cup  of  cold 
water  given  to  him  who  was  thirsty,  or  to  a single  moment 
when  you  had  “ prevented  with  your  bread  him  that  fled.” 
Do  not  answer,  nor  think  to  answer,  that  with  your  great 
works  and  great  payments  of  workmen  in  them,  you  would 
do  this ; I know  you  would,  and  will,  as  Builders ; but,  I 
repeat,  it  is  not  your  building  that  I am  talking  about,  but 
your  brains;  it  is  your  invention  and  imagination  of 


LECT.  IV.] 


IIST  ARCHITECTURE. 


123 


whose  profit  I am  speaking.  The  good  done  through  the 
building,  observe,  is  done  by  your  employers,  not  by  you — 
you  share  in  the  benefit  of  it.  The  good  that  you  person- 
ally must  do  is  by  your  designing;  and  I compare  you 
with  musicians  who  do  good  by  their  pathetic  composing, 
not  as  they  do  good  by  employing  fiddlers  in  the  orchestra  ; 
for  it  is  the  public  who  in  reality  do  that,  not  the  musicians. 
So  clearly  keeping  to  this  one  question,  what  good  we 
architects  are  to  do  by  our  genius ; and  having  found  that 
on  our  proportionate  system  we  can  do  no  good  to  others, 
will  you  tell  me,  lastly,  what  good  we  can  do  to  ourselves  ? 

Observe,  nearly  every  other  liberal  art  or  profession  has 
some  intense  pleasure  connected  with  it,  irrespective  of  any 
good  to  others.  As  lawyers,  or  physicians,  or  clergymen, 
you  would  have  the  pleasure  of  investigation,  and  of  histo- 
rical reading,  as  part  of  your  work  : as  men  of  science  you 
would  be  rejoicing  in  curiosity  perpetually  gratified  respect- 
ing the  laws  and  facts  of  nature : as  artists  you  would  have 
delight  in  watching  the  external  forms  of  nature : as  day 
labourers  or  petty  tradesmen,  supposing  you  to  undertake 
such  work  with  as  much  intellect  as  you  are  going  to 
devote  to  your  designing,  you  would  find  continued  subjects 
of  interest  in  the  manufacture  or  the  agriculture  which  you 
helped  to  improve ; or  in  the  problems  of  commerce  which 
bore  on  your  business.  But  your  architectural  designing 
leads  you  into  no  pleasant  journeys, — into  no  seeing  of 
lovely  things, — no  discerning  of  just  laws, — no  warmths  of 


124 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


compassion,  no  humilities  of  veneration,  no  progressive 
state  of  sight  or  soul.  Our  conclusion  is — must  be — -that 
you  will  not  amuse,  nor  inform,  nor  help  anybody;  you 
will  not  amuse,  nor  better,  nor  inform  yourselves  ; you  will 
sink  into  a state  in  which  you  can  neither  show,  nor  feel, 
nor  see,  anything,  but  that  one  is  to  two  as  three  is  to  six, 
And  in  that  state  what  should  we  call  ourselves?  Men? 

I think  not.  The  right  name  for  us  would  be — numerators 
and  denominators.  Vulgar  Fractions. 

Shall  we,  then,  abandon  this  theory  of  the  soul  of  archi- 
tecture being  in  proportional  lines,  and  look  whether  we 
can  find  anything  better  to  exert  our  fancies  upon  ? 

May  we  not,  to  begin  with,  accept  this  great  principle— 
that,  as  our  bodies,  to  be  in  health,  must  be  generally  exer- 
cised, so  our  minds,  to  be  in  health,  must  be  generally  culti- 
vated? You  would  not  call  a man  healthy  who  had  strong 
arms  but  was  paralytic  in  his  feet ; nor  one  who  could  walk 
well,  but  had  no  use  of  his  hands ; nor  one  who  could  see 
well,  if  he  could  not  hear.  You  would  not  voluntarily 
reduce  your  bodies  to  any  such  partially  developed  state. 
Much  more,  then,  you  would  not,  if  you  could  help  it, 
reduce  your  minds  to  it.  Now,  your  minds  are  endowed 
with  a vast  number  of  gifts  of  totally  different  uses — limbs 
of  mind  as  it  were,  which,  if  you  don’t  exercise,  you  cripple. 
One  is  curiosity ; that  is  a gift,  a capacity  of  pleasure  in 
knowing ; which  if  you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves  cold 
and  dull.  Another  is  sympathy ; the  power  of  sharing  in  ** 


LECT.  IV.] 


m ARCHITECTURE. 


125 


the  feelings  of  living  creatures,  which  if  you  destroy,  you 
make  yourselves  hard  and  cruel.  Another  of  your  limbs 
of  mind  is  admiration;  the  power  of  enjoying  beauty  or 
ingenuity,  which,  if  you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves 
base  and  irreverent.  Another  is  wit;  or  the  power  of 
playing  with  the  lights  on  the  many  sides  of  truth ; which 
if  you  destroy,  you  make  yourselves  gloomy,  and  less  use- 
ful and  cheering  to  others  than  you  might  be.  So  that  in 
choosing  your  way  of  work  it  should  be  your  aim,  as  far  as 
possible,  to  bring  out  all  these  faculties,  as  far  as  they  exist 
in  you ; not  one  merely,  nor  another,  but  all  of  them.  And 
the  way  to  bring  them  out,  is  simply  to  concern  yourselves 
attentively  with  the  subjects  of  each  faculty.  To  cultivate 
sympathy  you  must  be  among  living  creatures,  and  think- 
ing about  them ; and  to  cultivate  admiration,  you  must  be 
among  beautiful  things  and  looking  at  them. 

All  this  sounds  much  like  truism,  at  least  I hope  it  does, 
for  then  you  will  surely  not  refuse  to  act  upon  it ; and  to 
consider  farther,  how,  as  architects,  you  are  to  keep  your- 
selves in  contemplation  of  living  creatures  and  lovely 
things. 

You  all  probably  know  the  beautiful  photographs  which 
have  been  published  within  the  last  year  or  two  of  the 
porches  of  the  Cathedral  of  Amiens.  I hold  one  of  these 
up  to  you,  (merely  that  you  may  know  what  I am  talking 
about,  as  of  course  you  cannot  see  the  detail  at  this  dis- 
tance, but  you  will  recognise  the  subject.)  Have  you  ever 


126 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IY. 


considered  how  much  sympathy,  and  how  much  humour,  are 
developed  in  filling  this  single  doorway*  with  these  sculp- 
tures of  the  history  of  St.  Hon  ore  (and,  by  the  way,  consi- 
dering how  often  we  English  are  now  driving  up  and  down 
the  Kue  St.  Honore,  we  may  as  well  know  as  much  of  the 
saint  as  the  old  architect  cared  to  tell  us).  You  know  in  all 
legends  of  saints  who  ever  were  bishops,  the  first  thing  you 
are  told  of  them  is  that  they  didn’t  want  to  be  bishops.  So 
here  is  St.  Honore,  who  doesn’t  want  to  be  a bishop,  sitting 
sulkily  in  the  corner ; he  hugs  his  book  with  both  hands, 
and  won’t  get  up  to  take  his  crosier ; and  here  are  all  the 
city  aldermen  of  Amiens  come  to  poke  him  up ; and  all 
the  monks  in  the  town  in  a great  puzzle  what  they  shall 
do  for  a bishop  if  St.  Honore  won’t  be ; and  here’s  one  of 
the  monks  in  the  opposite  corner  who  is  quite  cool  about 
it,  and  thinks  they’ll  get  on  well  enough  without  St. 
Honore, — you  see  that  in  his  face  perfectly.  At  last  St. 
Honore  consents  to  be  bishop,  and  here  he  sits  in  a throne, 
and  has  his  book  now  grandly  on  his  desk  instead  of  his 
knees,  and  he  directs  one  of  his  village  curates  how  to  find 
relics  in  a wood ; here  is  the  wood,  and  here  is  the  village 
curate,  and  here  are  the  tombs,  with  the  bones  of  St.  Yicto- 
rien  and  Grentien  in  them. 

After  this,  St.  Honore  performs  grand  mass,  and  the 
miracle  occurs  of  the  appearance  of  a hand  blessing  the 

* The  tympanum  of  the  south  transept  door ; it  is  to  be  found  gene- 
rally among  all  collections  of  architectural  photographs. 


LECT.  IV.] 


IJST  ARCHITECTURE. 


127 


wafer,  which,  occurrence  afterwards  was  painted  for  the 
arms  of  the  abbey.  Then  St.  Honore  dies ; and  here  is 
his  tomb  with  his  statue  on  the  top  ; and  miracles  are  being 
performed  at  it — a deaf  man  having  his  ear  touched,  and  a 
blind  man  groping  his  way  up  to  the  tomb  with  his  dog. 
Then  here  is  a great  procession  in  honour  of  the  relics 
of  St.  Honore ; and  under  his  coffin  are  some  cripples 
being  healed;  and  the  coffin  itself  is  put  above  the 
bar  which  separates  the  cross  from  the  lower  subjects, 
because  the  tradition  is  that  the  figure  on  the  crucifix  of 
the  Church  of  St.  Firmin  bowed  its  head  in  token  of  ac- 
ceptance, as  the  relics  of  St.  Honore  passed  beneath. 

Now  just  consider  the  amount  of  sympathy  with  human 
nature,  and  observance  of  it,  shown  in  this  one  bas-relief ; 
the  sympathy  with  disputing  monks,  with  puzzled  aider- 
men,  with  melancholy  recluse,  with  triumphant  prelate, 
with  palsy-stricken  poverty,  with  ecclesiastical  magni- 
ficence, or  miracle-working  faith.  Consider  how  much 
intellect  was  needed  in  the  architect,  and  how  much 
observance  of  nature,  before  he  could  give  the  expression 
to  these  various  figures — cast  these  multitudinous  draperies 
— design  these  rich  and  quaint  fragments  of  tombs  and 
altars — weave  with  perfect  animation  the  entangled  branches 
of  the  forest. 

But  you  will  answer  me,  all  this  is  not  architecture  at  all 
— it  is  sculpture.  Will  you  then  tell  me  precisely  where 
the  separation  exists  between  one  and  the  other  ? We  will 


128 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


begin  at  the  very  beginning.  I will  show  yon  a piece  of 
what  you  will  certainly  admit  to  be  a piece  of  pure  architec- 
ture ; * it  is  drawn  on  the  back  of  another  photograph,  another 
of  these  marvellous  tympana  from  Notre  Dame,  which  you 
call,  I suppose,  impure.  Well,  look  on  this  picture,  and  on 
this.  Don’t  laugh ; you  must  not  laugh,  that’s  very  improper 
of  you,  this  is  classical  architecture.  I have  taken  it  out  of 
the  essay  on  that  subject  in  the  “Encyclopaedia  Britannica.” 
Yet  I suppose  none  of  you  would  think  yourselves  par- 
ticularly ingenious  architects  if  you  had  designed  nothing 
more  than  this ; nay,  I will  even  let  you  improve  it  into 
any  grand  proportion  you  choose,  and  add  to  it  as  many 
windows  as  you  choose ; the  only  thing  I insist  upon  in  our 
specimen  of  pure  architecture  is,  that  there  shall  be  no 
mouldings  nor  ornaments  upon  it.  And  I suspect  you 
don’t  quite  like  your  architecture  so  “pure”  as  this.  We 
want  a few  mouldings,  you  will  say — just  a few.  Those 
who  want  mouldings,  hold  up  their  hands.  We  are 
unanimous,  I think.  Will  you,  then,  design  the  profiles  of 
these  mouldings  yourselves,  or  will  you  copy  them  ? If 
you  wish  to  copy  them,  and  to  copy  them  always,  of  course 
I leave  you  at  once  to  your  authorities,  and  your  imagina- 
tions to  their  repose.  But  if  you  wish  to  design  them 
yourselves,  how  do  you  do  it?  You  draw  the  profile 
according  to  your  taste,  and  you  order  your  mason  to  cut 


* See  Appendix  III.,  “ Classical  Architecture.” 


LECT.  IV.] 


t 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


129 


it.  Now,  will  you  tell  me  the  logical  difference  between 
drawing  the  profile  of  a moulding  and  giving  that  to  be  cut, 
and  drawing  the  folds  of  the  drapery  of  a statue  and  giving 
those  to  be  cut.  The  last  is  much  more  difficult  to  do  than 
the  first ; but  degrees  of  difficulty  constitute  no  specific 
difference,  and  you  will  not  accept  it,  surely,  as  a definition 
of  the  difference  between  architecture  and  sculpture,  that 
“ architecture  is  doing  anything  that  is  easy,  and  sculpture 
anything  that  is  difficult.” 

It  is  true,  also,  that  the  carved  moulding  represents 
nothing,  and  the  carved  drapery  represents  something ; but 
you  will  not,  I should  think,  accept,  as  an  explanation  of 
the  difference  between  architecture  and  sculpture,  this  any 
more  than  the  other,  that  “sculpture  is  art  which  has 
meaning,  and  architecture  art  which  has  none.” 

Where,  then,  is  your  difference  ? In  this,  perhaps,  you 
will  say ; that  whatever  ornaments  we  can  direct  ourselves, 
and  get  accurately  cut  to  order,  we  consider  architectural. 
The  ornaments  that  we  are  obliged  to  leave  to  the  pleasure 
of  the  workman,  or  the  superintendence  of  some  other 
designer,  we  consider  sculptural,  especially  if  they  are  more 
or  less  extraneous  and  incrusted — not  an  essential  part  of 
the  building. 

Accepting  this  definition,  I am  compelled  to  reply,  that 
it  is  in  effect  nothing  more  than  an  amplification  of  my 
first  one — that  whatever  is  easy  you  call  architecture, 
whatever  is  difficult  you  call  sculpture.  For  you  cannot 

6* 


130 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


suppose  the  arrangement  of  the  place  in  which  the  sculp- 
ture is  to  be  put  is  so  difficult  or  so  great  a part  of  the 
design  as  the  sculpture  itself.  For  instance  : you  all  know 
the  pulpit  of  Hiccolo  Pisano,  in  the  baptistry  at  Pisa.  It  is 
composed  of  seven  rich  relievi , surrounded  by  panel  mould- 
ings, and  sustained  on  marble  shafts.  Do  you  suppose 
Niccolo  Pisano’s  reputation — such  part  of  it  at  least  as  rests 
on  this  pulpit  (and  much  does) — depends  on  the  panel 
mouldings,  or  on  the  relievi  ? The  panel  mouldings  are  by 
his  hand ; he  would  have  disdained  to  leave  even  them  to 
a common  workman  ; but  do  you  think  he  found  any  diffi- 
culty in  them,  or  thought  there  was  any  credit  in  them  ? 
Having  once  done  the  sculpture,  those  enclosing  lines  were 
mere  child’s  play  to  him  ; the  determination  of  the  diame- 
ter of  shafts  and  height  of  capitals  was  an  affair  of  minutes; 
his  work  was  in  carving  the  Crucifixion  and  the  Baptism. 

Or,  again,  do  you  recollect  Orcagna’s  tabernacle  in  the 
church  of  San  Michele,  at  Florence  ? That,  also,  consists 
of  rich  and  multitudinous  bas-reliefs,  enclosed  in  panel 
mouldings,  with  shafts  of  mosaic,  and  foliated  arches  sus- 
taining the  canopy.  Do  you  think  Orcagna,  any  more 
than  Pisano,  if  his  spirit  could  rise  in  the  midst  of  us  at 
this  moment,  would  tell  us  that  he  had  trusted  his  fame  to 
the  foliation,  or  had  put  his  soul’s  pride  into  the  panelling? 
Hot  so  ; he  would  tell  you  that  his  spirit  was  in  the  stoop- 
ing figures  that  stand  round  the  couch  of  the  dying  Virgin. 

Or,  lastly,  do  you  think  the  man  who  designed  the  pro- 


LECT.  IV.] 


m ARCHITECTURE. 


131 


cession  on  tlie  portal  of  Amiens  was  tire  subordinate 
workman  ? that  there  was  an  architect  over  him , restrain- 
ing him  within  certain  limits,  and  ordering  of  him  his 
bishops  at  so  much  a mitre,  and  his  cripples  at  so  much  a 
crutch?  Not  so.  Here , on  this  sculptured  shield,  rests 
the  Master’s  hand;  this  is  the  centre  of  the  Master’s  thought; 
from  this,  and  in  subordination  to  this,  waved  the  arch  and 
sprang  the  pinnacle.  Having  done  this,  and  being  able  to 
give  human  expression  and  action  to  the  stone,  all  the  rest 
— the  rib,  the  niche,  the  foil,  the  shaft — were  mere  toys  to 
his  hand  and  accessories  to  his  conception  : and  if  once  you 
also  gain  the  gift  of  doing  this,  if  once  you  can  carve  one 
fronton  such  as  you  have  here,  I tell  you,  you  would  be 
able — so  far  as  it  depended  on  your  invention — -to  scatter 
cathedrals  over  England  as  fast  as  clouds  rise  from  its 
streams  after  summer  rain. 

Nay,  but  perhaps  you  answer  again,  our  sculptors  at 
present  do  not  design  cathedrals,  and  could  not.  No,  they 
could  not ; but  that  is  merely  because  we  have  made  archi- 
tecture so  dull  that  they  cannot  take  any  interest  in  it,  and, 
therefore,  do  not  care  to  add  to  their  higher  knowledge  the 
poor  and  common  knowledge  of  principles  of  building. 
You  have  thus  separated  building  from  sculpture,  and  you 
have  taken  away  the  power  of  both ; for  the  sculptor  loses 
nearly  as  much  by  never  having  room  for  the  development 
of  a continuous  work,  as  you  do  from  having  reduced  your 
work  to  a continuity  of  mechanism.  You  are  essentially, 


132 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


and  should  always  be,  the  same  body  of  men,  admitting 
only  such  difference  in  operation  as  there  is  between  the 
work  of  a painter  at  different  times,  who  sometimes  labours 
on  a small  picture,  and  sometimes  on  the  frescoes  of  a pa- 
lace gallery. 

This  conclusion,  then,  we  arrive  at,  must  arrive  at;  the 
fact  being  irrevocably  so  : — that  in  order  to  give  your  ima- 
gination and  the  other  powers  of  your  souls  full  play,  you 
must  do  as  all  the  great  architects  of  old  time  did — you  must 
yourselves  be  your  sculptors.  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo, 
Orcagna,  Pisano,  Giotto, — which  of  these  men,  do  you 
think,  could  not  use  his  chisel?  You  say,  “It  is  difficult; 
quite  out  of  your  way.”  I know  it  is ; nothing  that  is  great 
is  easy;  and  nothing  that  is  great,  so  long  as  you  study 
building  without  sculpture,  can  be  in  your  way.  I want 
to  put  it  in  your  way,  and  you  to  find  your  way  to  it. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  do  not  shrink  from  the  task  as  if 
the  refined  art  of  perfect  sculpture  were  always  required 
from  you.  For,  though  architecture  and  sculpture  are  not 
separate  arts,  there  is  an  architectural  manner  of  sculpture  ; 
and  it  is,  in  the  majority  of  its  applications,  a comparative- 
ly easy  one.  Our  great  mistake  at  present,  in  dealing  with 
stone  at  all,  is  requiring  to  have  all  our  work  too  refined  ; it 
is  just  the  same  mistake  as  if  we  were  to  require  all  our 
book  illustrations  to  be  as  fine  work  as  Baphael’s.  John 
Leech  does  not  sketch  so  well  as  Leonardo  da  Yinci ; but 
do  you  think  that  the  public  could  easily  spare  him ; or 


LECT.  IV.] 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


133 


that  he  is  wrong  in  bringing  out  his  talent  in  the  way  in 
which  it  is  most  effective?  Would  you  advise  him,  if  he 
asked  your  advice,  to  give  up  his  wood-blocks  and  take  to 
canvas  ? I know  you  would  not ; neither  would  you  tell 
him,  I believe,  on  the  other  hand,  that  because  he  could 
not  draw  as  well  as  Leonardo,  therefore  he  ought  to  draw 
nothing  but  straight  lines  with  a ruler,  and  circles  with 
compasses,  and  no  figure-subjects  at  all.  That  would  be 
some  loss  to  you  ; would  it  not  ? You  would  all  be  vexed 
if  next  week’s  Punch  had  nothing  in  it  but  proportionate 
lines.  And  yet,  do  not  you  see  that  you  are  doing  precisely 
the  same  thing  with  your  powers  of  sculptural  design  that  he 
would  be  doing  with  his  powers  of  pictorial  design,  if 
he  gave  you  nothing  but  such  lines.  You  feel  that  you 
cannot  carve  like  Phidias ; therefore  you  will  not  carve  at 
all,  but  only  draw  mouldings ; and  thus  all  that  interme- 
diate power  which  is  of  especial  value  in  modern  days, — 
that  popular  power  of  expression  which  is  within  the  attain- 
ment of  thousands, — -and  would  address  itself  to  tens  of 
thousands, — is  utterly  lost  to  us  in  stone,  though  in  ink  and 
paper  it  has  become  one  of  the  most  desired  luxuries  of 
modern  civilization. 

Here,  then,  is  one  part  of  the  subject  to  which  I would 
especially  invite  your  attention,  namely,  the  distinctive  cha- 
racter which  may  be  wisely  permitted  to  belong  to  architec- 
tural sculpture,  as  distinguished  from  perfect  sculpture  on 
one  side>  and  from  mere  geometrical  decoration  on  the  other. 


134 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


And  first,  observe  what  an  indulgence  we  have  in  the  dis- 
tance at  which  most  work  is  to  be  seen.  Supposing  we  were 
able  to  carve  eyes  and  lips  with  the  most  exquisite  precision, 
it  would  all  be  of  no  use  as  soon  as  the  work  was  put  far 
above  the  eye ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  as  beauties  disap- 
pear by  being  far  withdrawn,  so  will  faults ; and  the  mys- 
tery and  confusion  which  are  the  natural  consequence  of 
distance,  while  they  would  often  render  your  best  skill  but 
vain,  will  as  often  render  your  worst  errors  of  little  conse- 
quence ; nay,  more  than  this,  often  a deep  cut,  or  a rude 
angle,  will  produce  in  certain  positions  an  effect  of  expres- 
sion both  startling  and  true,  which  you  never  hoped  for. 
Not  that  mere  distance  will  give  animation  to  the  work,  if 
it  has  none  in  itself ; but  if  it  has  life  at  all,  the  distance 
will  make  that  life  more  perceptible  and  powerful  by  soften- 
ing the  defects  of  execution.  So  that  you  are  placed,  as 
workmen,  in  this  position  of  singular  advantage,  that  you 
may  give  your  fancies  free  play,  and  strike  hard  for  the 
expression  that  you  want,  knowing  that,  if  you  miss  it,  no 
one  will  detect  you ; if  you  at  all  touch  it,  nature  herself 
will  help  you,  and  with  every  changing  shadow  and  bask- 
ing sunbeam  bring  forth  new  phases  of  your  fancy. 

But  it  is  not  merely  this  privilege  of  being  imperfect 
which  belongs  to  architectural  sculpture.  It  has  a true 
privilege  of  imagination,  far  excelling  all  that  can  be  granted 
to  the  more  finished  work,  which,  for  the  sake  of  distinc- 
tion, I will  call, — and  I don’t  think  we  can  have  a much 


LECT.  IV.] 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


135 


better  term — “furniture  sculpture;”  sculpture,  that  is, 
which  can  be  moved  from  place  to  place  to  furnish  rooms. 

For  observe,  to  that  sculpture  the  spectator  is  usually 
brought  in  a tranquil  or  prosaic  state  of  mind ; he  sees  it 
associated  rather  with  what  is  sumptuous  than  sublime,  and 
under  circumstances  which  address  themselves  more  to  his 
comfort  than  his  curiosity.  The  statue  which  is  to  be  pa- 
thetic, seen  between  the  flashes  of  footmen’s  livery  round 
the  dining-table,  must  have  strong  elements  of  pathos  in 
itself;  and  the  statue  which  is  to  be  awful,  in  the  midst  of 
the  gossip  of  the  drawing-room,  must  have  the  elements  of 
awe  wholly  in  itself.  But  the  spectator  is  brought  to  your 
work  already  in  an  excited  and  imaginative  mood.  He  has 
been  impressed  by  the  cathedral  wall  as  it  loomed  over  the 
low  streets,  before  he  looks  up  to  the  carving  of  its  porch 
— and  his  love  of  mystery  has  been  touched  by  the  silence 
and  the  shadows  of  the  cloister,  before  he  can  set  himself 
to  decipher  the  bosses  on  its  vaulting.  So  that  when  once 
he  begins  to  observe  your  doings,  he  will  ask  nothing  bet- 
ter from  you,  nothing  kinder  from  you,  than  that  you  would 
meet  this  imaginative  temper  of  his  half  way  ; — that  you 
would  farther  touch  the  sense  of  terror,  or  satisfy  the 
expectation  of  things  strange,  which  have  been  prompted 
by  the  mystery  or  the  majesty  of  the  surrounding  scene. 
And  thus,  your  leaving  forms  more  or  less  undefined,  or 
carrying  out  your  fancies,  however  extravagant,  in  gro- 
tesqueness of  shadow  or  shape,  will  be  for  the  most  part 


136 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


in  accordance  with  the  temper  of  the  observer ; and  he  is 
likely,  therefore,  much  more  willingly  to  use  his  fancy  to 
help  your  meanings,  than  his  judgment  to  detect  your 
faults. 

Again.  Kemember  that  when  the  imagination  and  feelings 
are  strongly  excited,  they  will  not  only  bear  with  strange 
things,  but  they  will  look  into  minute  things  with  a delight 
quite  unknown  in  hours  of  tranquillity.  You  surely  must 
remember  moments  of  your  lives  in  which,  under  some 
strong  excitement  of  feeling,  all  the  details  of  visible  objects 
presented  themselves  with  a strange  intensity  and  insistance, 
whether  you  would  or  no ; urging  themselves  upon  the 

mind,  and  thrust  upon  the  eye,  with  a force  of  fascination 

* 

which  you  could  not  refuse.  Now,  to  a certain  extent,  the 
senses  get  into  this  state  whenever  the  imagination  is  strongly 
excited.  Things  trivial  at  other  times  assume  a dignity  or 
significance  which  we  cannot  explain ; but  which  is  only 
the  more  attractive  because  inexplicable : and  the  powers 
of  attention,  quickened  by  the  feverish  excitement,  fasten 
and  feed  upon  the  minutest  circumstances  of  detail,  and 
remotest  traces  of  intention.  So  that  what  would  at  other 
times  be  felt  as  more  or  less  mean  or  extraneous  in  a work 
of  sculpture,  and  which  would  assuredly  be  offensive  to 
the  perfect  taste  in  its  moments  of  languor,  or  of  critical 
judgment,  will  be  grateful,  and  even  sublime,  when  it  meets 
this  frightened  inquisitiveness,  this  fascinated  watchfulness, 
of  the  roused  imagination.  And  this  is  all  for  your  advan- 


LECT.  IV.] 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


137 


tage;  for,  in  the  beginnings  of  your  sculpture,  you  will 
assuredly  find  it  easier  to  imitate  minute  circumstances  of 
costume  or  character,  than  to  perfect  the  anatomy  of  simple 
forms  or  the  flow  of  noble  masses ; and  it  will  be  encou- 
raging to  remember  that  the  grace  you  cannot  perfect,  and 
the  simplicity  you  cannot  achieve,  would  be  in  great  part 
vain,  even  if  you  could  achieve  them,  in  their  appeal  to 
the  hasty  curiosity  of  passionate  fancy ; but  that  the  sym- 
pathy which  would  be  refused  to  your  science  will  be  granted 
to  your  innocence : and  that  the  mind  of  the  general 
observer,  though  wholly  unaffected  by  the  correctness  of 
anatomy  or  propriety  of  gesture,  will  follow  you  with  fond 
and  pleased  concurrence,  as  you  carve  the  knots  of  the 
hair,  and  the  patterns  of  the  vesture. 

Farther  yet.  We  are  to  remember  that  not  only  do  the 
associated  features  of  the  larger  architecture  tend  to  excite 
the  strength  of  fancy,  but  the  architectural  laws  to  which 
you  are  obliged  to  submit  your  decoration  stimulate  its  in- 
genuity. Fvery  crocket  which  you  are  to  crest  with  sculp- 
ture,— every  foliation  which  you  have  to  fill,  presents  itself 
to  the  spectator’s  fancy,  not  only  as  a pretty  thing,  but  as 
a problematic  thing.  It  contained,  he  perceives  immedi- 
ately, not  only  a beauty  which  you  wished  to  display,  but 
a necessity  which  you  were  forced  to  meet ; and  the  pro- 
blem, how  to  occupy  such  and  such  a space  with  organic 
form  in  any  probable  way,  or  how  to  turn  such  a boss  or 
ridge  into  a conceivable  image  of  life,  becomes  at  once,  to 


138 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


him  as  to  you,  a matter  of  amusement  as  much  as  of  admira- 
tion. The  ordinary  conditions  of  perfection  in  form,  ges- 
ture, or  feature,  are  willingly  dispensed  with,  when  the 
ugly  dwarf  and  ungainly  goblin  have  only  to  gather  them- 
selves into  angles,  or  crouch  to  carry  corbels ; and  the  want 
of  skill  which,  in  other  kinds  of  work,  would  have  been 
required  for  the  finishing  of  the  parts,  will  at  once  be  for- 
given here,  if  you  have  only  disposed  ingeniously  what 
you  have  executed  roughly,  and  atoned  for  the  rudeness  of 
your  hands  by  the  quickness  of  your  wits. 

Hitherto,  however,  we  have  been  considering  only  the 
circumstances  in  architecture  favourable  to  the  development 
of  the  powers  of  imagination.  A yet  more  important  point 
for  us  seems,  to  me,  the  place  which  it  gives  to  all  the 
objects  of  imagination. 

For,  I suppose,  you  will  not  wish  me  to  spend  any  time 
in  proving,  that  imagination  must  be  vigorous  in  propor- 
tion to  the  quantity  of  material  which  it  has  to  handle  ; and 
that,  just  as  we  increase  the  range  of  what  we  see,  we  in- 
crease the  richness  of  what  we  can  imagine.  Granting  this, 
consider  what  a field  is  opened  to  your  fancy  merely  in  the 
subject  matter  which  architecture  admits.  Nearly  every 
other  art  is  severely  limited  in  its  subjects — the' landscape 
painter,  for  instance,  gets  little  help  from  the  aspects  of 
beautiful  humanity ; the  historical  painter,  less,  perhaps, 
than  he  ought,  from  the  accidents  of  wild  nature ; and  the 
pure  sculptor,  still  less,  from  the  minor  details  of  common 


LECT.  IV.] 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


139 


life.  But  is  there  anything  within  range  of  sight,  or  con- 
ception, which  may  not  be  of  use  to  you,  or  in  which  your 
interest  may  not  be  excited  with  advantage  to  your  art  ? 
From  visions  of  angels,  down  to  the  least  important  gesture 
of  a child  at  play,  whatever  may  be  conceived  of  Divine,  or 
beheld  of  Human,  may  be  dared  or  adopted  by  you ; 
throughout  the  kingdom  of  animal  life,  no  creature  is  so 
vast,  or  so  minute,  that  you  cannot  deal  with  it,  or  bring  it 
into  service ; the  lion  and  the  crocodile  will  couch  about 
your  shafts ; the  moth  and  the  bee  will  sun  themselves  upon 
your  flowers ; for  you,  the  fawn  will  leap ; for  you,  the 
snail  be  slow ; for  you,  the  dove  smooth  her  bosom ; and 
the  hawk  spread  her  wings  toward  the  south.  All  the 
wide  world  of  vegetation  blooms  and  bends  for  you ; the 
leaves  tremble  that  you  may  bid  them  be  still  under  the 
marble  snow ; the  thorn  and  the  thistle,  which  the  earth 
casts  forth  as  evil,  are  to  you  the  kindliest  servants ; no 
dying  petal,  nor  drooping  tendril,  is  so  feeble  as  to  have  no 
help  for  you ; no  robed  pride  of  blossom  so  kingly,  but  it 
will  lay  aside  its  purple  to  receive  at  your  hands  the  pale 
immortality.  Is  there  anything  in  common  life  too  mean, 
— in  common  things  too  trivial,— to  be  ennobled  by  your 
touch?  As  there  is  nothing  in  life,  so  there  is  nothing  in 
lifelessness  which  has  not  its  lesson  for  you,  or  its  gift ; and 
when  you  are  tired  of  watching  the  strength  of  the  plume, 
and  the  tenderness  of  the  leaf,  you  may  walk  down  to 
your  rough  river-shore,  or  into  the  thickest  markets  of  your 


140 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


thoroughfares ; and  there  is  not  a piece  of  torn  cable  that 
will  not  twine  into  a perfect  moulding ; there  is  not  a frag- 
ment of  cast-away  matting,  or  shattered  basket-work,  that 
will  not  work  into  a chequer  or  capital.  Yes:  and  if  you 
gather  up  the  very  sand,  and  break  the  stone  on  which  yon 
tread,  among  its  fragments  of  all  but  invisible  shells  you  will 
find  forms  that  will  take  their  place,  and  that  proudly, 
among  the  starred  traceries  of  your  vaulting;  and  you, 
who  can  crown  the  mountain  with  its  fortress,  and  the  city 
with  its  towers,  are  thus  able  also  to  give  beauty  to  ashes, 
and  worthiness  to  dust. 

Now,  in  that  your  art  presents  all  this  material  to  you, 
you  have  already  much  to  rejoice  in.  But  you  have  more 
to  rejoice  in,  because  all  this  is  submitted  to  you,  not  to  be 
dissected  or  analyzed,  but  to  be  sympathized  with,  and  to 
bring  out,  therefore,  what  may  be  accurately  called  the 
moral  part  of  imagination.  We  saw  that,  if  we  kept  our- 
selves among  lines  only,  we  should  have  cause  to  envy  the 
naturalist,  because  he  was  conversant  with  facts;  but  you 
will  have  little  to  envy  now,  if  you  make  yourselves  con- 
versant with  the  feelings  that  arise  out  of  his  facts.  For 
instance,  the  naturalist  coming  upon  a block  of  marble,  has 
to  begin  considering  immediately  how  far  its  purple  is 
owing  to  iron,  or  its  whiteness  to  magnesia ; he  breaks  his 
piece  of  marble,  and  at  the  close  of  his  day,  has  nothing 
but  a little  sand  in  his  crucible  and  some  data  added  to  the 
theory  of  the  elements.  But  you  approach  your  marble  to 


LECT.  IV.] 


IK  ARCHITECTURE. 


141 


sympathize  with  it,  and  rejoice  over  its  beauty.  You  cut 
it  a little  indeed ; but  only  to  bring  out  its  veins  more  per- 
fectly ; and  at  the  end  of  your  day’s  work  you  leave  your 
marble  shaft  with  joy  and  complacency  in  its  perfectness, 
as  marble.  When  you  have  to  watch  an  animal  instead  of 
a stone,  you  differ  from  the  naturalist  in  the  same  way. 
He  may,  perhaps,  if  he  be  an  amiable  naturalist,  take 
delight  in  having  living  creatures  round  him ; — still,  the 
major  part  of  his  work  is,  or  has  been,  in  counting  fea- 
thers, separating  fibres,  and  analyzing  structures.  But 
your  work  is  always  with  the  living  creature ; the  thing 
you  have  to  get  at  in  him  is  his  life,  and  ways  of  going 
about  things.  It  does  not  matter  to  you  how  many  cells 
there  are  in  his  bones,  or  how  many  filaments  in  his  fea- 
thers ; what  you  want  is  his  moral  character  and  way  of 
behaving  himself;  it  is  just  that  which  your  imagination, 
if  healthy,  will  first  seize — just  that  which  your  chisel,  if 
vigorous,  will  first  cut.  You  must  get  the  storm  spirit  into 
your  eagles,  and  the  lordliness  into  your  lions,  and  the 
tripping  fear  into  your  fawns ; and  in  order  to  do  this,  you 
must  be  in  continual  sympathy  with  every  fawn  of  them ; 
and  be  hand-in-glove  with  all  the  lions,  and  hand-in-ciaw 
with  all  the  hawks.  And  don’t  fancy  that  you  will  lower 
yourselves  by  sympathy  with  the  lower  creatures;  you 
cannot  sympathize  rightly  with  the  higher,  unless  you  do 
with  those : but  you  have  to  sympathize  with  the  higher, 
too — with  queens,  and  kings,  and  martyrs,  and  angels. 


142 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IY. 


Yes,  and  above  all,  and  more  than  all,  with  simple  huma- 
nity in  all  its  needs  and  ways,  for  there  is  not  one  hurried 
face  that  passes  you  in  the  street  that  will  not  be  impres- 
sive, if  you  can  only  fathom  it.  All  history  is  open  to 
you,  all  high  thoughts  and  dreams  that  the  past  fortunes  of 
men  can  suggest,  all  fairy  land  is  open  to  you — no  vision 
that  ever  haunted  forest,  or  gleamed  over  hill-side,  but 
calls  you  to  understand  how  it  came  into  men’s  hearts,  and 
may  still  touch  them ; and  all  Paradise  is  open  to  you— 
yes,  and  the  work  of  Paradise ; for  in  bringing  all  this,  in 
perpetual  and  attractive  truth,  before  the  eyes  of  your 
fellow-men,  you  have  to  join  in  the  employment  of  the 
angels,  as  well  as  to  imagine  their  companies. 

And  observe,  in  this  last  respect,  what  a peculiar  impor- 
tance, and  responsibility,  are  attached  to  your  work,  when 
you  consider  its  permanence,  and  the  multitudes  to  whom 
it  is  addressed.  We  frequently  are  led,  by  wise  people,  to 
consider  what  responsibility  may  sometimes  attach  to 
words,  which  yet,  the  chance  is,  will  be  heard  by  few,  and 
forgotten  as  soon  as  heard.  But  none  of  your  words  will 
be  heard  by  few,  and  none  will  be  forgotten,  for  five  or  six 
hundred  years,  if  you  build  well.  You  will  talk  to  all 
who  pass  by ; and  all  those  little  sympathies,  those  freaks 
of  fancy,  those  jests  in  stone,  those  workings-out  of  pro- 
blems in  caprice,  will  occupy  mind  after  mind  of  utterly 
countless  multitudes,  long  after  you  are  gone.  You  have 
not,  like  authors,  to  plead  for  a hearing,  or  to  fear  oblivion. 


LECT.  IV.] 


m AKCHITECTUEE. 


143 


Do  but  build  large  enough,  and  carve  boldly  enough,  and 
all  the  world  will  hear  you ; they  cannot  choose  but  look. 

I do  not  mean  to  awe  you  by  this  thought ; I do  not 
mean  that  because  you  will  have  so  many  witnesses  and 
watchers,  you  are  never  to  jest,  or  do  anything  gaily  or 
lightly ; on  the  contrary,  I have  pleaded,  from  the  begin- 
ning, for  this  art  of  yours,  especially  because  it  has  room 
for  the  whole  of  your  character — if  jest  is  in  you,  let  the 
jest  be  jested  ; if  mathematical  ingenuity  is  yours,  let  your 
problem  be  put,  and  your  solution  worked  out,  as  quaintly 
as  you  choose ; above  all,  see  that  your  work  is  easily  and 
happily  done,  else  it  will  never  make  anybody  else  happy ; 
but  while  you  thus  give  the  rein  to  all  your  impulses,  see 
that  those  impulses  be  headed  and  centred  by  one  noble 
impulse ; and  let  that  be  Love — triple  love — for  the  art 
which  you  practise,  the  creation  in  which  you  move,  and 
the  creatures  to  whom  you  minister. 

I.  I say,  first,  Love  for  the  art  which  you  practise.  Be 
assured  that  if  ever  any  other  motive  becomes  a leading 
one  in  your  mind,  as  the  principal  one  for  exertion,  except 
your  love  of  art,  that  moment  it  is  all  over  with  your 
art.  I do  not  say  you  are  to  desire  money,  nor  to  desire 
fame,  nor  to  desire  position ; you  cannot  but  desire  all 
three ; nay,  you  may — if  you  are  willing  that  I should  use 
the  word  Love  in  a desecrated  sense — love  all  three ; that 
is,  passionately  covet  them,  yet  you  must  not  covet  or  love 
them  in  the  first  place.  Men  of  strong  passions  and  imagi- 


144 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IY. 

nations  must  always  care  a great  deal  for  anything  they 
care  for  at  all ; but  the  whole  question  is  one  of  first  or 
second.  Does  your  art  lead  you,  or  your  gain  lead  you? 
You  may  like  making  money  exceedingly  ; but  if  it  come 
to  a fair  question,  whether  you  are  to  make  five  hundred 
pounds  less  by  this  business,  or  to  spoil  your  building,  and 
you  choose  to  spoil  your  building,  there’s  an  end  of  you. 
So  you  may  be  as  thirsty  for  fame  as  a cricket  is  for  cream ; 
but,  if  it  come  to  a fair  question,  whether  you  are  to  please 
the  mob,  or  do  the  thing  as  you  know  it  ought  to  be  done ; 
and  you  can’t  do  both,  and  choose  to  please  the  mob,  it’s 
all  over  with  you — there’s  no  hope  for  you ; nothing  that 
you  can  do  will  ever  be  worth  a man’s  glance  as  he  passes 
by.  The  test  is  absolute,  inevitable — Is  your  art  first  with 
you  ? Then  you  are  artists  ; you  may  be,  after  you  have 
made  your  mone}^  misers  and  usurers ; you  may  be,  after 
you  have  got  your  fame,  jealous,  and  proud,  and  wretched, 
and  base  : but  yet,  as  long  as  you  won't  spoil  your  work , you 
are  artists.  On  the  other  hand — Is  your  money  first  with 
you,  and  your  fame  first  with  you  ? Then,  you  may  be 
very  charitable  with  your  money,  and  very  magnificent 
with  your  money,  and  very  graceful  in  the  way  you  wear 
your  reputation,  and  very  courteous  to  those  beneath  you, 
and  very  acceptable  to  those  above  you ; but  you  are 
not  artists.  You  are  mechanics,  and  drudges. 

II.  You  must  love  the  creation  you  work  in  the  midst 
of.  For,  wholly  in  proportion  to  the  intensity  of  feeling 


LECT.  IV.] 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


145 


which,  you  bring  to  the  subject  you  have  chosen,  will  be 
the  depth  and  justice  of  our  perception  of  its  character. 
And  this  depth  of  feeling  is  not  to  be  gained  on  the  instant, 
when  you  want  to  bring  it  to  bear  on  this  or  that.  It  is 
the  result  of  the  general  habit  of  striving  to  feel  rightly ; 
and,  among  thousands  of  various  means  of  doing  this,  per- 
haps the  one  I ought  specially  to  name  to  you,  is  the  keep- 
ing yourselves  clear  of  petty  and  mean  cares.  "Whatever 
you  do,  don’t  be  anxious,  nor  fill  your  heads  with  little 
chagrins  and  little  desires.  I have  just  said,  that  you  may 
be  great  artists,  and  yet  be  miserly  and  jealous,  and  trou- 
bled about  many  things.  So  you  may  be ; but  I said  also 
that  the  miserliness  or  trouble  must  not  be  in  your  hearts 
all  day.  It  is  possible  that  you  may  get  a habit  of  saving 
money  ; or  it  is  possible,  at  a time  of  great  trial,  you  may 
yield  to  the  temptation  of  speaking  unjustly  of  a rival,— 
and  you  will  shorten  your  powers  and  dim  your  sight  even 
by  this but  the  thing  that  you  have  to  dread  far  more 
than  any  such  unconscious  habit,  or  any  such  momentary 
fall — is  the  constancy  of  small  emotions  ; — the  anxiety  whe- 
ther Mr.  So-and-so  will  like  your  work  ; whether  such  and 
such  a workman  will  do  all  that  you  want  of  him,  and  so 
on ; — not  wrong  feelings  or  anxieties  in  themselves,  but 
impertinent,  and  wholly  incompatible  with  the  full  exer- 
cise of  your  imagination. 

Keep  yourselves,  therefore,  quiet,  peaceful,  with  your 
eyes  open.  It  doesn’t  matter  at  all  what  Mr.  So-and-so 


146 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IY. 


thinks  of  your  work;  but  it  matters  a great  deal  what 
that  bird  is  doing  up  there  in  its  nest,  or  how  that  vaga- 
bond child  at  the  street  corner  is  managing  his  game  of 
knuckle-down.  And  remember,  you  cannot  turn  aside 
from  your  own  interests,  to  the  birds  and  the  children’s 
interests,  unless  you  have  long  before  got  into  the  habit  of 
loving  and  watching  birds  and  children ; so  that  it  all 
comes  at  last  to  the  forgetting  yourselves,  and  the  living 
out  of  yourselves,  in  the  calm  of  the  great  world,  or  if  you 
will,  in  its  agitation ; but  always  in  a calm  of  your  own 
bringing.  Do  not  think  it  wasted  time  to  submit  your- 
selves to  any  influence  which  may  bring  upon  you  any 
noble  feeling.  Bise  early,  always  watch  the  sunrise,  and 
the  way  the  clouds  break  from  the  dawn ; you  will  cast 
your  statue-draperies  in  quite  another  than  your  common 
way,  when  the  remembrance  of  that  cloud  motion  is  with 
you,  and  of  the  scarlet  vesture  of  the  morning.  Live 
always  in  the  spring-time  in  the  country ; you  do  not 
know  what  leaf-form  means,  unless  you  have  seen  the  buds 
burst,  and  the  young  leaves  breathing  low  in  the  sunshine, 
and  wondering  at  the  first  shower  of  rain.  But  above  all, 
accustom  yourselves  to  look  for,  and  to  love,  all  nobleness 
of  gesture  and  feature  in  the  human  form ; and  remember 
that  the  highest  nobleness  is  usually  among  the  aged,  the 
poor,  and  the  infirm ; you  will  find,  in  the  end,  that  it  is 
not  the  strong  arm  of  the  soldier,  nor  the  laugh  of  the 
young  beauty,  that  are  the  best  studies  for  you.  Look  at 


LECT.  IV.] 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


147 


them,  and  look  at  them  reverently ; but  be  assured  that 
endurance  is  nobler  than  strength,  and  patience  than 
beauty  ; and  that  it  is  not  in  the  high  church  pews,  where 
the  gay  dresses  are,  but  in  the  church  free  seats,  where  the 
widows’  weeds  are,  that  you  may  see  the  faces  that  will  fit 
best  between  the  angels’  wings,  in  the  church  porch. 

III.  And  therefore,  lastly,  and  chiefly,  you  must  love 
the  creatures  to  whom  yon  minister,  your  fellow-men  ; for, 
if  you  do  not  love  them,  not  only  will  you  be  little  inte- 
rested in  the  passing  events  offlife,  but  in  all  your  gazing  at 
humanity,  you  will  be  apt  to  be  struck  only  by  outside 
form,  and  not  by  expression.  It  is  only  kindness  and  ten- 
derness which  will  ever  enable  you  to  see  what  beauty 
there  is  in  the  dark  eyes  that  are  sunk  with  weeping,  and  in 
the  paleness  of  those  fixed  faces  which  the  earth’s  adversity 
has  compassed  about,  till  they  shine  in  their  patience  like 
dying  watchfires  through  twilight.  But  it  is  not  this  only 
which  makes  it  needful  for  you,  if  you  would  be  great,  to 
be  also  kind ; there  is  a most  important  and  all-essential 
reason  in  the  very  nature  of  your  own  art.  So  soon  as 
you  desire  to  build  largely,  and  with  addition  of  noble 
sculpture,  you  will  find  that  your  work  must  be  associa- 
tive. You  cannot  carve  a whole  cathedral  yourself — you 
can  carve  but  few  and  simple  parts  of  it.  Either  your  own 
work  must  be  disgraced  in  the  mass  of  the  collateral  inferi- 
ority, or  you  must  raise  your  fellow-designers  to  correspon- 
dence of  power.  If  you  have  genius,  you  will  yourselves 


148 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION  [LECT.  IV. 


take  the  lead  in  the  building  yon  design  ; you  will  carve 
its  porch  and  direct  its  disposition.  But  for  all  subsequent 
advancement  of  its  detail,  you  must  trust  to  the  agency 
and  the  invention  of  others ; and  it  rests  with  you  either 
to  repress  what  faculties  your  workmen  have,  into  cunning 
subordination  to  your  own;  or  to  rejoice  in  discovering 
even  the  powers  that  may  rival  you,  and  leading  forth  mind 
after  mind  into  fellowship  with  youl*  fancy,  and  association 
with  your  fame. 

I need  not  tell  you  that  if  you  do  the  first— if  you 
endeavour  to  depress  or  disguise  the  talents  of  your  subor- 
dinates— you  are  lost;  for  nothing  could  imply  more  darkly 
and  decisively  than  this,  that  your  art  and  your  work  were 
not  beloved  by  you  ; that  it  was  your  own  prosperity  that 
you  were  seeking,  and  your  own  skill  only  that  you  cared 
to  contemplate.  I do  not  say  that  you  must  not  be  jealous 
at  all ; it  is  rarely  in  human  nature  to  be  wholly  without 
jealousy ; and  you  may  be  forgiven  for  going  some  day 
sadly  home,  when  you  find  some  youth,  unpractised  and 
unapproved,  giving  the  life-stroke  to  his  work  which  you, 
after  years  of  training,  perhaps,  cannot  reach ; but 
your  jealousy  must  not  conquer — your  love  of  your 
building  must  conquer,  helped  by  your  kindness  of 
heart.  See — I set  no  high  or  difficult  standard  before 
you.  I do  not  say  that  you  are  to  surrender  your  pre- 
eminence in  mere  unselfish  generosity.  But  I do  say 
that  you  must  surrender  your  pre-eminence  in  your  love 


LECT.  IV.  J 


IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


149 


of  your  building  helped  by  your  kindness ; and  that  whom: 
soever  you  find  better  able  to  do  what  will  adorn  it  than 
you, — that  person  you  are  to  give  place  to : and  to  console 
yourselves  for  the  humiliation,  first,  by  your  joy  in  seeing 
the  edifice  grow  more  beautiful  under  his  chisel,  and 
secondly,  by  your  sense  of  having  done  kindly  and  justly. 
But  if  you  are  morally  strong  enough  to  make  the  kind- 
ness and  justice  the  first  motive,  it  will  be  better  ; — best  of 
all — if  you  do  not  consider  it  as  kindness  at  all,  but  bare 
and  stern  justice  ; for,  truly,  such  help  as  we  can  give  each 
other  in  this  world  is  a debt  to  each  other ; and  the  man 
who  perceives  a superiority  or  a capacity  in  a subordinate, 
and  neither  confesses,  nor  assists  it,  is  not  merely  the  with- 
holder  of  kindness,  but  the  committer  of  injury.  But  be 
the  motive  what  you  will,  only  see  that  you  do  the  thing ; 
and  take  the  joy  of  the  consciousness  that,  as  your  art 
embraces  a wider  field  than  all  others — and  addresses  a 
vaster  multitude  than  all  others — and  is  surer  of  audience 
than  all  others — so  it  is  profounder  and  holier  in  Fellow- 
ship than  all  others.  The  artist,  when  his  pupil  is  perfect, 
must  see  him  leave  his  side  that  he  may  declare  his  distinct, 
perhaps  opponent,  skill.  Man  of  science  wrestles  with 
man  of  science  for  priority  of  discovery,  and  pursues  in 
pangs  of  jealous  haste  his  solitary  inquiry.  You  alone  are 
called  by  kindness, — by  necessity, — by  equity,  to  fraternity 
of  toil ; and  thus,  in  those  misty  and  massive  piles  which 
rise  above  the  domestic  roofs  of  our  ancient  cities,  there 


150 


INFLUENCE  OF  IMAGINATION,  ETC.  [LECT.  IY. 


was — there  may  be  again — a meaning  more  profound  and 
true  than  any  that  fancy  so  commonly  has  attached  to  them. 
Men  say  their  pinnacles  point  to  heaven.  Why,  so  does 
every  tree  that  buds,  and  every  bird  that  rises  as  it  sings. 
Men  say  their  aisles  are  good  for  worship.  Why,  so  is 
every  mountain  glen,  and  rough  sea-shore.  But  this  they 
have  of  distinct  and  indisputable  glory, — that  their  mighty 
walls  were  never  raised,  and  never  shall  be,  but  by  men 
who  love  and  aid  each  other  in  their  weakness ; — that  all 
their  interlacing  strength  of  vaulted  stone  has  its  founda- 
tion upon  the  stronger  arches  of  manly  fellowship,  and  all 
their  changing  grace  of  depressed  or  lifted  pinnacle  owes 
its  cadence  and  completeness  to  sweeter  symmetries  of 
human  soul. 


LECTURE  Y. 


THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 

A LECTURE 

Delivered  at  Tunbridge  Weds,  February , 1858. 

When  first  I heard  that  you  wished  me  to  address  you 
this  evening,  it  was  a matter  of  some  doubt  with  me 
whether  I could  find  any  subject  that  would  possess  any 
sufficient  interest  for  you  to  justify  my  bringing  you  out  of 
your  comfortable  houses  on  a winter’s  night.  When  I 
venture  to  speak  about  my  own  special  business  of  art,  it 
is  almost  always  before  students  of  art,  among  whom  I may 
sometimes  permit  myself  to  be  dull,  if  I can  feel  that  I am 
useful:  but  a mere  talk  about  art,  especially  without 
examples  to  refer  to  (and  I have  been  unable  to  prepare 
any  careful  illustrations  for  this  lecture),  is  seldom  of  much 
interest  to  a general  audience.  As  I was  considering  what 
you  might  best  bear  with  me  in  speaking  about,  there  came 
naturally  into  my  mind  a subject  connected  with  the  origin 
and  present  prosperity  of  the  town  you  live  in;  and,  it 
seemed  to  me,  in  the  out-branchings  of  it,  capable  of  a very 
general  interest.  When,  long  ago  (I  am  afraid  to  think 
how  long),  Tunbridge  Wells  was  my  Switzerland,  and  I 


152  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

used  to  be  brought  down  here  in  the  summer,  a sufficiently 
active  child,  rejoicing  in  the  hope  of  clambering  sandstone 
cliffs  of  stupendous  height  above  the  common,  there  used 
sometimes,  as,  I suppose,  there  are  in  the  lives  of  all 
children  at  the  Wells,  to  be  dark  days  in  my  life — days  of 
condemnation  to  the  pantiles  and  band — under  which 
calamities  my  only  consolation  used  to  be  in  watching,  at 
every  turn  in  my  walk,  the  welling  forth  of  the  spring  over 
the  orange  rim  of  its- marble  basin.  The  memory  of  the 
clear  water,  sparkling  over  its  saffron  stain,  came  back  to 
me  as  the  strongest  image  connected  with  the  place ; and  it 
struck  me  that  you  might  not  be  unwilling,  to-night,  to 
think  a little  over  the  full  significance  of  that  saffron  stain, 
and  of  the  power,  in  other  ways  and  other  functions,  of  the 
steelly  element  to  which  so  many  here  owe  returning 
strength  and  life ; — chief  as  it  has  been  always,  and  is  yet 
more  and  more  markedly  so  day  by  day,  among  the  precious 
gifts  of  the  earth. 

The  subject  is,  of  course,  too  wide  to  be  more  than 
suggestively  treated ; and  even  my  suggestions  must  be  few, 
and  drawn  chiefly  from  my  own  fields  of  work  ; neverthe- 
less, I think  I shall  have  time  to  indicate  some  courses  of 
thought  which  you  may  afterwards  follow  out  for  yourselves 
if  they  interest  you ; and  so  I will  not  shrink  from  the  full 
scope  of  the  subject  which  I have  announced  to  you — the 
functions  of  Iron,  in  Nature,  Art,  and  Policy. 

Without  more  preface,  I will  take  up  the  first  head. 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


158 


I.  Iron  in  Nature. — You  all  probably  know  that  the 
ochreous  stain,  which,  perhaps,  is  often  thought  to  spoil 
the  basin  of  your  spring,  is  iron  in  a state  of  rust : and  when 
you  see  rusty  iron  in  other  places  you  generally  think,  not 
only  that  it  spoils  the  places  it  stains,  but  that  it  is  spoiled 
itself — that  rusty  iron  is  spoiled  iron. 

For  most  of  our  uses  it  generally  is  so ; and  because  we 
cannot  use  a rusty  knife  or  razor  so  well  as  a polished  one, 
we  suppose  it  to  be  a great  defect  in  iron  that  it  is  subject 
to  rust.  But  not  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  most  perfect 
and  useful  state  of  it  is  that  ochreous  stain ; and  therefore 
it  is  endowed  with  so  ready  a disposition  to  get  itself  into 
that  state.  It  is  not  a fault  in  the  iron,  but  a virtue,  to  be 
so  fond  of  getting  rusted,  for  in  that  condition  it  fulfils  its 
most  important  functions  in  the  universe,  and  most  kindly 
duties  to  mankind.  Nay,  in  a certain  sense,  and  almost  a 
literal  one,  we  may  say  that  iron  rusted  is  Living ; but 
when  pure  or  polished,  Dead.  You  all  probably  know  that 
in  the  mixed  mr  we  breathe,  the  part  of  it  essentially  need- 
ful to  us  is  called  oxygen  ; and  that  this  substance  is  to  all 
animals,  in  the  most  accurate  sense  of  the  word,  u breath  of 
life.”  The  nervous  power  of  life  is  a different  thing  ; but  the 
supporting  element  of  the  breath,  without  which  the  blood, 
and  therefore  the  life,  cannot  be  nourished,  is  this  oxygen. 
Now  it  is  this  very  same  air  which  the  iron  breathes  when 
it  gets  rusty.  It  takes  the  oxygen  from  the  atmosphere  as 
eagerly  as  we  do,  though  it  uses  it  differently.  The  iron 


154 


THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

keeps  all  that  it  gets ; we,  and  other  animals,  part  with  it 
again ; but  the  metal  absolutely  keeps  what  it  -has  once 
received  of  this  aerial  gift ; and  the  ochreous  dust  which 
we  so  much  despise  is,  in  fact,  just  so  much  nobler  than 
pure  iron,  in  so  far  as  it  is  iron  and  the  air.  Nobler,  and 
more  useful — for,  indeed,  as  I shall  be  able  to  show  you 
presently — the  main  service  of  this  metal,  and  of  all  other 
metals,  to  us,  is  not  in  making  knives,  and  scissors,  and 
pokers,  and  pans,  but  in  making  the  ground  we  feed  from, 
and  nearly  all  the  substances  first  needful  to  our  existence. 
For  these  are  all  nothing  but  metals  and  oxygen — metals 
with  breath  put  into  them.  Sand,  lime,  clay,  and  the  rest 
of  the  earths — potash  and  soda,  and  the  rest  of  the  alkalies 
— are  all  of  them  metals  which  have  undergone  this,  so  to 
speak,  vital  change,  and  have  been  rendered  fit  for  the 
service  of  man  by  permanent  unity  with  the  purest  air 

which  he  himself  breathes.  There  is  onlv  one  metal  which 

%/ 

does  not  rust  readily ; and  that,  in  its  influence  on  Man 
hitherto,  has  caused  Death  rather  than  Life  ; it  will  not  be 
put  to  its  right  use  till  it  is  made  a pavement  of,  and  so 
trodden  under  foot. 

Is  there  not  something  striking  in  this  fact,  considered 
largely  as  one  of  the  types,  or  lessons,  furnished  by  the 
inanimate  creation  ? Here  you  have  your  hard,  bright, 
cold,  lifeless  metal — good  enough  for  swords  and  scissors 
— but  not  for  food.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  your  iron 
is  wonderfully  useful  in  a pure  form,  but  how  would 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


155 


you  like  the  world,  if  all  your  meadows,  instead  of  grass, 
grew  nothing  but  iron  wire — if  all  your  arable  ground, 
instead  of  being  made  of  sand  and  clay,  were  suddenly 
turned  into  flat  surfaces  of  steel — if  the  whole  earth,  instead 
of  its  green  and  glowing  sphere,  rich  with  forest  and  flower, 
showed  nothing  but  the  image  of  the  vast  furnace  of  a 
ghastly  engine — a globe  of  black,  lifeless,  excoriated  metal  ? 
It  would  be  that, — probably  it  was  once  that ; but  assuredly 
it  would  be,  were  it  not  that  all  the  substance  of  which  it 
is  made  sucks  and  breathes  the  brilliancy  of  the  atmosphere ; 
and  as  it  breathes,  softening  from  its  merciless  hardness,  it 
falls  into  fruitful  and  beneficent  dust ; gathering  itself  again 
into  the  earths  from  which  we  feed,  and  the  stones  with 
which  we  build ; — into  the  rocks  that  frame  the  mountains, 
and  the  sands  that  bind  the  sea. 

Hence,  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  take  up  the  most  insig- 
nificant pebble  at  your  feet,  without  being  able  to  read,  if 
you  liker  this  curious  lesson  in  it.  You  look  upon  it  at 
first  as  if  it  were  earth  only.  Nay,  it  answers,  “ I am  not 
earth — I am  earth  and  air  in  one ; part  of  that  blue  heaven 
which  you  love,  and  long  for,  is  already  in  me ; it  is  all  my 
life — without  it  I should  be  nothing,  and  able  for  nothing ; 
I could  not  minister  to  you,  nor  nourish  you — I should  be 
a cruel  and  helpless  thing;  but,  because  there  is,  according  to 
my  need  and  place  in  creation,  a kind  of  soul  in  me,  I have 
become  capable  of  good,  and  helpful  in  the  circles  of  vitality.” 

Thus  far  the  same  interest  attaches  to  all  the  earths,  and 


156  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

all  tne  metals  of  which  they  are  made ; but  a deeper  inter- 
est, and  larger  beneficence  belong  to  that  ochreous  earth  of 
iron  which  stains  the  marble  of  your  springs.  It  stains 
much  besides  that  marble.  It  stains  the  great  earth  where- 
soever you  can  see  it,  far  and  wide — it  is  the  colouring 
substance  appointed  to  colour  the  globe  for  the  sight,  as 
well  as  subdue  it  to  the  service  of  man.  You  have  just 
seen  your  hills  covered  with  snow,  and,  perhaps,  have 
enjoyed,  at  first,  the  contrast  of  their  fair  white  with  the 
dark  blocks  of  pine  woods ; but  have  you  ever  considered 
how  you  would  like  them  always  white — not  pure  white, 
but  dirty  white — the  white  of  thaw,  with  all  the  chill  of 
snow  in  it,  but  none  of  its  brightness  ? That  is  what  the 
colour  of  the  earth  would  be  without  its  iron ; that  would 
be  its  colour,  not  here  or  there  only,  but  in  all  places, 
and  at  all  times.  Follow  out  that  idea  till  you  get  it  in 
some  detail.  Think  first  of  your  pretty  gravel  walks  in 
your  gardens,  yellow  and  fine,  like  plots  of  sunshine  be- 
tween the  flower-beds ; fancy  them  all  suddenly  turned  to 
the  colour  of  ashes.  That  is  what  they  would  be  without 
iron  ochre.  Think  of  your  winding  walks  over  the  com- 
mon, as  warm  to  the  eye  as  they  are  dry  to  the  foot,  and 
imagine  them  all  laid  down  suddenly  with  gray  cinders. 
Then  pass  beyond  the  common  into  the  country,  and  pause 
at  the  first  ploughed  field  that  you  see  sweeping  up  the 
hill  sides  in  the  sun,  with  its  deep  brown  furrows,  and 
wealth  of  ridges  all  a-glow,  heaved  aside  by  the  plough- 


LECT.  v.]  IN  NATUKE,  APT,  AND  POLICY.  157 

share,  like  deep  folds  of  a mantle  of  russet  velvet — fancy 
it  all  changed  suddenly  into  grisly  furrows  in  a field  of 
mud.  That  is  what  it  would  be  without  iron.  Pass  on,  in 
fancy,  over  hill  and  dale,  till  you  reach  the  bending  line  of 
the  sea  shore ; go  down  upon  its  breezy  beach — watch  the 
white  foam  flashing  among  the  amber  of  it,  and  all  the 
blue  sea  embayed  in  belts  of  gold  : then  fancy  those 
circlets  of  far  sweeping  shore  suddenly  put  into  mounds  of 
mourning — all  those  golden  sands  turned  into  gray  slime ; 
the  fairies  no  more  able  to  call  to  each  other,  “ Come  unto 
these  yellow  sands  but,  “ Come  unto  these  drab  sands.” 
That  is  what  they  would  be,  without  iron. 

Iron  is  in  some  sort,  therefore,  the  sunshine  and  light  of 
landscape,  so  far  as  that  light  depends  on  the  ground  ; but 
it  is  a source  of  another  kind  of  sunshine,  quite  as  im- 
portant to  us  in  the  way  we  live  at  present — sunshine,  not 
of  landscape,  but  of  dwelling-place. 

In  these  days  of  swift  locomotion  I may  doubtless  assume 
that  most  of  my  audience  have  been  somewhere  out  of 
England— have  been  in  Scotland,  or  France,  or  Switzer- 
land. Whatever  may  have  been  their  impression,  on  re- 
turning to  their  own  country,  of  its  superiority  or  inferiority 
in  other  respects,  they  cannot  but  have  felt  one  thing  about 
it — the  comfortable  look  of  its  towns  and  villages.  Fo- 
reign towns  are  often  very  picturesque,  very  beautiful,  but 
they  never  have  quite  that  look  of  warm  self-sufficiency 
and  wholesome  quiet  with  which  our  villages  nestle  them- 


158 


THE  WORK  OF  IRON, 


[LECT.  Y. 


selves  down  among  tlie  green  fields.  If  you  will  take  the 
trouble  to  examine  into  the  sources  of  this  impression, 
you  will  find  that  by  far  the  greater  part  of  that  warm  and 
satisfactory  appearance  depends  upon  the  rich  scarlet  colour 
of  the  bricks  and  tiles.  It  does  not  belong  to  the  neat 
building — very  neat  building  has  an  uncomfortable  rather 
than  a comfortable  look — but  it  depends  on  the  warm 
building ; our  villages  are  dressed  in  red  tiles  as  our  old 
women  are  in  red  cloaks  ; and  it  does  not  matter  how  worn 
the  cloaks,  or  how  bent  and  bowed  the  roof  may  be,  so 
long  as  there  are  no  holes  in  either  one  or  the  other,  and 
the  sobered  but  unextinguishable  colour  still  glows  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hood,  and  burns  among  the  green  mosses  of 
the  gable.  And  what  do  you  suppose  dyes  your  tiles  of 
cottage  roof?  You  don’t  paint  them.  It  is  nature  who 
puts  all  that  lovely  vermilion  into  the  clay  for  you ; and 
all  that  lovely  vermilion  is  this  oxide  of  iron.  Think, 
therefore,  what  your  streets  of  towns  would  become — ugly 
enough,  indeed,  already,  some  of  them,  but  still  comfort- 
able-looking—if  instead  of  that  warm  brick  red,  the  houses 
became  all  pepper-and-salt  colour.  Fancy  your  country 
villages  changing  from  that  homely  scarlet  of  theirs  which, 
in  its  sweet  suggestion  of  laborious  peace,  is  as  honourable 
as  the  soldiers’  scarlet  of  laborious  battle — suppose  all 
those  cottage  roofs,  I say,  turned  at  once  into  the  colour  of 
unbaked  clay,  the  colour  of  street  gutters  in  rainy  weather. 
That’s  what  they  would  be,  without  iron. 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  159 

There  is,  however,  yet  another  effect  of  colour  in  our 
English  country  towns  which,  perhaps,  you  may  not  all 
yourselves  have  noticed,  but  for  which  you  must  take  the 
word  of  a sketcher.  They  are  not  so  often  merely  warm 
scarlet  as  they  are  warm  purple  ; — a more  beautiful  colour 
still : and  they  owe  this  colour  to  a mingling  with  the  ver- 
milion of  the  deep  grayish  or  purple  hue  of  our  fine 
Welsh  slates  on  the  more  respectable  roofs,  made  more 
blue  still  by  the  colour  of  intervening  atmosphere.  If  you 
examine  one  of  these  Welsh  slates  freshly  broken,  you  will 
find  its  purple  colour  clear  and  vivid ; and  although  never 
strikingly  so  after  it  has  been  long  exposed  to  weather,  it 
always  retains  enough  of  the  tint  to  give  rich  harmonies  of 
distant  purple  in  opposition  to  the  green  of  our  woods  and 
fields.  Whatever  brightness  or  power  there  is  in  the  hue 
is  entirely  owing  to  the  oxide  of  iron.  Without  it  the 
slates  would  either  be  pale  stone  colour,  or  cold  gray,  or 
black. 

Thus  far  we  have  only  been  considering  the  use  and 
pleasantness  of  iron  in  the  common  earth  of  clay.  But  there 
are  three  kinds  of  earth  which  in  mixed  mass  and  pre- 
valent quantity,  form  the  world.  Those  are,  in  common 
language,  the  earths  of  clay,  of  lime,  and  of  flint.  Many 
other  elements  are  mingled  with  these  in  sparing  quantities ; 
but  the  great  frame  and  substance  of  the  earth  is  made  of 
these  three,  so  that  wherever  you  stand  on  solid  ground, 
in  any  country  of  the  globe,  the  thing  that  is  mainly  under 


160  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

your  feet  will  be  either  clay,  limestone,  or  some  condition 
of  the  earth  of  flint,  mingled  with  both. 

These  being  what  we  have  usually  to  deal  with,  Nature 
seems  to  have  set  herself  to  make  these  three  substances  as 
interesting  to  us,  and  as  beautiful  for  us,  as  she  can.  The 
clay,  being  a soft  and  changeable  substance,  she  doesn’t 
take  much  pains  about,  as  we  have  seen,  till  it  is  baked ; 
she  brings  the  colour  into  it  only  when  it  receives  a per- 
manent form.  But  the  limestone  and  flint  she  paints,  in  her 
own  way,  in  their  native  state  : and  her  object  in  painting 
them  seems  to  be  much  the  same  as  in  her  painting  of 
flowers ; to  draw  us,  careless  and  idle  human  creatures,  to 
watch  her  a little,  and  see  what  she  is  about — that  being  on 
the  whole  good  for  us, — her  children.  For  Nature  is  always 
carrying  on  very  strange  work  with  this  limestone  and  flint 
of  hers : laying  down  beds  of  them  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea ; building  islands  out  of  the  sea ; filling  chinks  and 
veins  in  mountains  with  curious  treasures ; petrifying 
mosses,  and  trees,  and  shells;  in  fact,  carrying  on  all  sorts 
of  business,  subterranean  or  submarine,  which  it  would  be 
highly  desirable  for  us,  who  profit  and  live  by  it,  to  notice 
as  it  goes  on.  And  apparently  to  lead  us  to  do  this,  she 
makes  picture-books  for  us  of  limestone  and  flint;  and 
tempts  us,  like  foolish  children  as  we  are,  to  read  her  books 
by  the  pretty  colours  in  them.  The  pretty  colours  in  her 
limestone-books  form  those  variegated  marbles  which  all 
mankind  have  taken  delight  to  polish  and  build  with  from 


LECT.  v.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


161 


the  beginning  of  time  ; and  the  pretty  colours  in  her  flint- 
books  form  those  agates,  jaspers,  cornelians,  bloodstones, 
onyxes,  cairngorms,  chrysoprases,  which  men  have  in  like 
manner  taken  delight  to  cut,  and  polish,  and  make  orna- 
ments of,  from  the  beginning  of  time ; and  yet,  so  much  of 
babies  are  they,  and  so  fond  of  looking  at  the  pictures  instead 
of  reading  the  book,  that  I question  whether,  after  six  thou- 
sand years  of  cutting  and  polishing,  there  are  above  two  or 
three  people  out  of  any  given  hundred,  who  know,  or  care  to 
know,  how  a bit  of  agate  or  a bit  of  marble  was  made,  or 
painted. 

How  it  was  made,  may  not  be  always  very  easy  to  say ; 
but  with  what  it  was  painted  there  is  no  manner  of  question. 
All  those  beautiful  violet  veinings  and  variegations  of  the 
marbles  of  Sicily  and  Spain,  the  glowing  orange  and  amber 
colours  of  those  of  Siena,  the  deep  russet  of  the  Rosso 
antico,  and  the  blood-colour  of  all  the  precious  jaspers  that 
enrich  the  temples  of  Italy ; and,  finally,  all  the  lovely 
transitions  of  tint  in  the  pebbles  of  Scotland  and  the  Rhine, 
which  form,  though  not  the  most  precious,  by  far  the  most 
interesting  portion  of  our  modern  jewellers’  work ; — all 
these  are  painted  by  nature  with  this  one  material  only, 
variously  proportioned  and  applied — the  oxide  of  iron  that 
stains  your  Tunbridge  springs. 

But  this  is  not  all,  nor  the  best  part  of  the  work  of  iron. 
Its  service  in  producing  these  beautiful  stones  is  only  ren- 
dered to  rich  people,  who  can  afford  to  quarry  and  polish 


162  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

them.  But  Nature  paints  for  all  the  world,  poor  and  rich 
together : and  while,  therefore,  she  thus  adorns  the  inner- 
most rocks  of  her  hills,  to  tempt  your  investigation,  or 
indulge  your  luxury, — she  paints,  far  more  carefully,  the 
outsides  of  the  hills,  which  are  for  the  eyes  of  the  shepherd 
and  the  ploughman.  I spoke  just  now  of  the  effect  in  the 
roofs  of  our  villages  of  their  purple  slates:*  but  if  the  slates 
are  beautiful  even  in  their  flat  and  formal  rows  on  house- 
roofs,  much  more  are  they  beautiful  on  the  rugged  crests 
and  flanks  of  their  native  mountains.  Have  you  ever 
considered,  in  speaking  as  we  do  so  often  of  distant  blue 
hills,  what  it  is  that  makes  them  blue  ? To  a certain  extent 
it  is  distance  ; but  distance  alone  will  not  do  it.  Many  hills 
look  white,  however  distant.  That  lovely  dark  purple 
colour  of  our  Welsh  and  Highland  hills  is  owing,  not  to 
their  distance  merely,  but  to  their  rocks.  Some  of  their 
rocks  are,  indeed,  too  dark  to  be  beautiful,  being  black  or 
ashy  gray ; owing  to  imperfect  and  porous  structure.  But 
when  you  see  this  dark  colour  dashed  with  russet  and  blue, 
and  coming  out  in  masses  among  the  green  ferns,  so  purple 
that  you  can  hardly  tell  at  first  whether  it  is  rock  or  heather, 
then  you  must  thank  your  old  Tunbridge  friend,  the  oxide 
of  iron. 

But  this  is  not  all.  It  is  necessary  for  the  beauty  of  hill 
scenery  that  Nature  should  colour  not  only  her  soft  rocks, 
but  her  hard  ones ; and  she  colours  them  with  the  same 
thing,  only  more  beautifully.  Perhaps  you  have  wondered 


LECT.  V.]  IK  KATURE,  ART,  AKD  POLICY. 


163 


at  my  use  of  the  word  u purple,’’  so  often  of  stones  ; but 
the  Greeks,  and  still  more  the  Romans,  who  had  profound 
respect  for  purple,  used  it  of  stone  long  ago.  You  have  all 
heard  of  u porphyry”  as  among  the  most  precious  of  the 
harder  massive  stones.  The  colour  which  gave  it  that 
noble  name,  as  well  as  that  which  gives  the  flush  to  all  the 
rosy  granite  of  Egypt — yes,  and  to  the  rosiest  summits  of 
the  Alps  themselves — is  still  owing  to  the  same  substance — 
your  humble  oxide  of  iron. 

And  last  of  all : 

A nobler  colour  than  all  these — the  noblest  colour  ever 
seen  on  this  earth- — one  which  belongs  to  a strength  greater 
than  that  of  the  Egyptian  granite,  and  to  a beauty  greater 
than  that  of  the  sunset  or  the  rose — is  still  mysteriously 
connected  with  the  presence  of  this  dark  iron.  I believe  it 
is  not  ascertained  on  what  the  crimson  of  blood  actually 
depends;  but  the  colour  is  connected,  of  course,  with  its 
vitality,  and  that  vitality  with  the  existence  of  iron  as  one 
of  its  substantial  elements. 

Is  it  not  strange  to  find  this  stern  and  strong  metal  min- 
gled so  delicately  in  our  human  life,  that  we  cannot  even 
blush  without  its  help  ? Think  of  it,  my  fair  and  gentle 
hearers  ; how  terrible  the  alternative — sometimes  you  have 
actually  no  choice  but  to  be  brazen-faced,  or  iron-faced ! 

In  this  slight  review  of  some  of  the  functions  of  the 
metal,  you  observe  that  I confine  myself  strictly  to  its 
operations  as  a colouring  element.  I should  only  confuse 


164  THE  WORK  OF  IEOH,  [LECT.  V. 

your  conception  of  the  facts,  if  I endeavoured  to  describe 
its  uses  as  a substantial  element,  either  in  strengthening  rocks, 
or  influencing  vegetation  by  the  decomposition  of  rocks.  I 
have  not,  therefore,  even  glanced  at  any  of  the  more  serious 
uses  of  the  metal  in  the  economy  of  nature.  But  what  I 
wish  you  to  carry  clearly  away  with  you  is  the  remem- 
brance that  in  all  these  uses  the  metal  would  be  nothing 
without  the  air.  The  pure  metal  has  no  power,  and  never 
occurs  in  nature  at  all  except  in  meteoric  stones,  whose  fall 
no  one  can  account  for,  and  which  are  useless  after  they 
have  fallen  : in  the  necessary  work  of  the  world,  the  iron  is 
invariably  joined  with  the  oxygen,  and  would  be  capable 
of  no  service  or  beauty  whatever  without  it. 

II.  Ieoh  in  Aet. — Passing,  then,  from  the  offices  of  the 
metal  in  the  operations  of  nature  to  its  uses  in  the  hands 
of  man,  you  must  remember,  in  the  outset,  that  the  type 
which  has  been  thus  given  you,  by  the  lifeless  metal,  of  the 
action  of  body  and  soul  together,  has  noble  antitype  in  the 
operation  of  all  human  power.  All  art  worthy  the  name 
is  the  energy — neither  of  the  human  body  alone,  nor  of  the 
human  soul  alone,  but  of  both  united,  one  guiding  the 
other  : good  craftsmanship  and  work  of  the  fingers,  joined 
■with  good  emotion  and  work  of  the  heart. 

There  is  no  good  art,  nor  possible  judgment  of  art,  when 
these  two  are  not  united ; yet  we  are  constantly  trying  to 
separate  them.  Our  amateurs  cannot  be  persuaded  but 
that  they  may  produce  some  kind  of  art  by  their  fancy  or 


LECT.  V.] 


IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


165 


sensibility,  without  going  through  the  necessary  manual 
toil.  That  is  entirely  hopeless.  Without  a certain  num- 
ber, and  that  a very  great  number,  of  steady  acts  of  hand 
— a practice  as  careful  and  constant  as  would  be  necessary 
to  learn  any  other  manual  business — no  drawing  is  possible. 
On  the  other  side,  the  workman,  and  those  who  employ 
him,  are  continually  trying  to  produce  art  by  trick  or  habit 
of  fingers,  without  using  their  fancy  or  sensibility.  That 
also  is  hopeless.  Without  mingling  of  heart-passion  with 
hand-power,  no  art  is  possible.*  The  highest  art  unites 
both  in  their  intensest  degrees : the  action  of  the  hand  at 
its  finest,  with  that  of  the  heart  at  its  fullest. 

Hence  it  follows  that  the  utmost  power  of  art  can  only 
be  given  in  a material  capable  of  receiving  and  retaining 
the  influence  of  the  subtlest  touch  of  the  human  hand. 
That  hand  is  the  most  perfect  agent  of  material  power 
existing  in  the  universe ; and  its  full  subtlety  can  only  be 
shown  when  the  material  it  works  on,  or  with,  is  entirely 
yielding.  The  chords  of  a perfect  instrument  will  receive 
it,  but  not  of  an  imperfect  one ; the  softly  bending  point 
of  the  hair  pencil,  and  soft  melting  of  colour,  will  receive 
it,  but  not  even  the  chalk  or  pen  point,  still  less  the  steel 
point,  chisel,  or  marble.  The  hand  of  a sculptor  may, 
indeed,  be  as  subtle  as  that  of  a painter,  but  all  its  subtlety 
is  not  bestowable  nor  expressible:  the  touch  of  Titian, 

* No  fine  art,  that  is.  See  the  previous  definition  of  fine  art  at 
p.  54. 


166  THE  WORK  OF  IROH,  [LECT.  V. 

Correggio,  or  Turner  * is  a far  more  marvellous  piece  of 
nervous  action  than  can  be  shown  in  anything  but  colour, 
or  in  the  very  highest  conditions  of  executive  expression 
in  music.  In  proportion  as  the  material  worked  upon  is 
less  delicate,  the  execution  necessarily  becomes  lower,  and 
the  art  with  it.  This  is  one  main  principle  of  all  work. 
Another  is,  that  whatever  the  material  you  choose  to  work 
with,  your  art  is  base  if  it  does  not  bring  out  the  distinctive 
qualities  of  that  material. 

The  reason  of  this  second  law  is,  that  if  you  don’t  want 
the  qualities  of  the  substance  you  use,  you  ought  to  use 
some  other  substance : it  can  be  only  affectation,  and  desire 
to  display  your  skill,  that  lead  you  to  employ  a refractory 
substance,  and  therefore  your  art  will  all  be  base.  Glass, 
for  instance,  is  eminently,  in  its  nature,  transparent.  If 
you  don’t  want  transparency,  let  the  glass  alone.  Do  not 
try  to  make  a window  look  like  an  opaque  picture,  but 
take  an  opaque  ground  to  begin  with.  Again,  marble  is 
eminently  a solid  and  massive  substance.  Unless  you  want 
mass  and  solidity,  don’t  work  in  marble.  If  you  wish  for 
lightness,  take  wood;  if  for  freedom,  take  stucco;  if  for 
ductility,  take  glass.  Don’t  try  to  carve  feathers,  or  trees, 
or  nets,  or  foam,  out  of  marble.  Carve  white  limbs  and 
broad  breasts  only  out  of  that. 

So  again,  iron  is  eminently  a ductile  and  tenacious  sub- 


* See  Appendix  IY.  u Subtlety  of  Hand.” 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


167 


stance — tenacious  above  all  things,  ductile  more  than  most. 
When  you  want  tenacity,  therefore,  and  involved  form, 
take  iron.  It  is  eminently  made  for  that.  It  is  the 
material  given  to  the  sculptor  as  the  companion  of  marble, 
with  a message,  as  plain  as  it  can  well  be  spoken,  from  the 
lips  of  the  earth-mother,  “ Here’s  for  you  to  cut,  and  here’s 
for  you  to  hammer.  Shape  this,  and  twist  that.  What  is 
solid  and  simple,  carve  out ; what  is  thin  and  entangled, 
beat  out.  I give  you  all  kinds  of  forms  to  be  delighted  in; 
- — fluttering  leaves  as  well  as  fair  bodies ; twisted  branches 
as  well  as  open  brows.  The  leaf  and  the  branch  you  may 
beat  and  drag  into  their  imagery  : the  body  and  brow  you 
shall  reverently  touch  into  their  imagery.  And  if  you 
choose  rightly  and  work  rightly,  what  you  do  shall  be  safe 
afterwards.  Your  slender  leaves  shall  not  break  off  in  my 
tenacious  iron,  though  they  may  be  rusted  a little  with  an 
iron  autumn.  Your  broad  surfaces  shall  not  be  unsmoothed 
in  my  pure  crystalline  marble — no  decay  shall  touch  them. 
But  if  you  carve  in  the  marble  what  will  break  with  a 
touch,  or  mould  in  the  metal  what  a stain  of  rust  or  verdi- 
gris will  spoil,  it  is  your  fault — not  mine.” 

These  are  the  main  principles  in  this  matter  ; which,  like 
nearly  all  other  right  principles  in  art,  we  moderns  delight 
in  contradicting  as  directly  and  specially  as  may  be.  We 
continually  look  for,  and  praise,  in  our  exhibitions,  the 
sculpture  of  veils,  and  lace,  and  thin  leaves,  and  all  kinds 
of  impossible  things  pushed  as  far  as  possible  in  the  fragile 


168 


[lect.  y. 


THE  WORK  OF  IRON, 

stone,  for  the  sake  of  showing  the  sculptor’s  dexterity.* 
On  the  other  hand,  we  cast  our  iron  into  bars — brittle, 
though  an  inch  thick — -sharpen  them  at  the  ends,  and  con- 
sider fences,  and  other  work,  made  of  such  materials,  deco- 
rative ! I do  not  believe  it  would  be  easy  to  calculate  the 
amount  of  mischief  done  to  our  taste  in  England  by  that 
fence  iron-work  of  ours  alone.  If  it  were  asked  of  us,  b}^  a 
single  characteristic,  to  distinguish  the  dwellings  of  a country 
into  two  broad  sections  ; and  to  set,  on  one  side,  the  places 
where  people  were,  for  the  most  part,  simple,  happy,  bene- 
volent, and  honest ; and,  on  the  other  side,  the  places  where 
at  least  a great  number  of  the  people  were  sophisticated, 
unkind,  uncomfortable,  and  unprincipled,  there  is,  I think, 
one  feature  that  you  could  fix  upon  as  a positive  test : the 
uncomfortable  and  unprincipled  parts  of  a country  would 
be  the  parts  where  people  lived  among  iron  railings,  and 

* I do  not  mean  to  attach  any  degree  of  blame  to  the  effort  to  repre- 
sent leafage  in  marble  for  certain  expressive  purposes.  The  later  works 
of  Mr.  Munro  have  depended  for  some  of  their  most  tender  thoughts 
on  a delicate  and  skilful  use  of  such  accessories.  And  in  general,  leaf 
sculpture  is  good  and  admirable,  if  it  renders,  as  in  G othic  work,  the 
grace  and  lightness  of  the  leaf  by  the  arrangement  of  light  and  shadow 
— supporting  the  masses  well  by  strength  of  stone  below;  but  all 
Carving  is  base  which  proposes  to  itself  slightness  as  an  aim,  and  tries  to 
imitate  the  absolute  thinness  of  thin  or  slight  things,  as  much  modern 
wood-carving  does.  I saw  in  Italy,  a year  or  two  ago,  a marble  sculp- 
ture of  birds’  nests. 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  169 

the  comfortable  and  principled  parts  where  they  had  none. 
A broad  generalization,  yon  will  say  ! Perhaps  a little  too 
broad ; yet,  in  all  sobriety,  it  will  come  truer  than  you 
think.  Consider  every  other  kind  of  fence  or  defence,  and 
you  will  find  some  virtue  in  it ; but  in  the  iron  railing 
none.  There  is,  first,  your  castle  rampart  of  stone — some- 
what too  grand  to  be  considered  here  among  our  types  of 
fencing ; next,  your  garden  or  park  wall  of  brick,  which 
has  indeed  often  an  unkind  look  on  the  outside,  but  there  is 
more  modesty  in  it  than  unkindness.  It  generally  means,  not 
that  the  builder  of  it  wants  to  shut  you  out  from  the  view 
of  his  garden,  but  from  the  view  of  himself : it  is  a frank 
statement  that  as  he  needs  a certain  portion  of  time  to  him- 
self, so  he  needs  a certain  portion  of  ground  to  himself, 
and  must  not  be  stared  at  when  he  digs  there  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, or  plays  at  leapfrog  with  his  boys  from  school,  or 
talks  over  old  times  with  his  wife,  walking  up  and  down  in 
the  evening  sunshine.  Besides,  the  brick  wall  has  good 
practical  service  in  it,  and  shelters  you  from  the  east  wind, 
and  ripens  your  peaches  and  nectarines,  and  glows  in  au- 
tumn like  a sunny  bank.  And,  moreover,  your  brick  wall, 
if  you  build  it  properly,  so  that  it  shall  stand  long  enough, 
is  a beautiful  thing  when  it  is  old,  and  has  assumed  its 
grave  purple  red,  touched  with  mossy  green. 

Next  to  your  lordly  wall,  in  dignity  of  enclosure,  comes 
your  close-set  wooden  paling,  which  is  more  objectionable, 
because  it  commonly  means  enclosure  on  a larger  scale  than 

8 


170  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  Y. 

people  want.  Still  it  is  significative  of  pleasant  parks,  and 
well-kept  field  walks,  and  herds  of  deer,  and  other  such 
aristocratic  pastoralisms,  which  have  here  and  there  their 
proper  place  in  a country,  and  may  be  passed  without  any 
discredit. 

Next  to  your  paling,  comes  your  low  stone  dyke,  your 
mountain  fence,  indicative  at  a glance  either  of  wild  hill 
country,  or  of  beds  of  stone,  beneath  the  soil;  the  hedge 
of  the  mountains — delightful  in  all  its  associations,  and 
yet  more  in  the  varied  and  craggy  forms  of  the  loose  stones 
it  is  built  of ; and  next  to  the  low  stone  wall,  your  lowland 
hedge,  either  in  trim  line  of  massive  green,  suggestive  of 
the  pleasances  of  old  Elizabethan  houses,  and  smooth 
alleys  for  aged  feet,  and  quaint  labyrinths  for  young  ones, 
or  else  in  fair  entanglement  of  eglantine  and  virgin’s 
bower,  tossing  its  scented  luxuriance  along  our  country 
waysides; — how  many  such  you  have  here  among  your 
pretty  hills,  fruitful  with  black  clusters  of  the  bramble  for 
boys  in  autumn,  and  crimson  hawthorn  berries  for  birds  in 
winter.  And  then  last,  and  most  difficult  to  class  among 
fences,  comes  your  handrail,  expressive  of  all  sorts  of 
things;  sometimes  having  a knowing  and  vicious  look, 
which  it  learns  at  race-courses ; sometimes  an  innocent  and 
tender  look,  which  it  learns  at  rustic  bridges  over  cressy 
brooks;  and  sometimes  a prudent  and  protective  look, 
which  it  learns  on  passes  of  the  Alps,  where  it  has  posts  of 
granite  and  bars  of  pine,  and  guards  the  brows  of  cliffs 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  171 

and  the  banks  of  torrents.  So  that  in  all  these  kinds  of 
defence  there  is  some  good,  pleasant,  or  noble  meaning. 
But  what  meaning  has  the  iron  railing  ? Either,  observe, 
that  you  are  living  in  the  midst  of  such  bad  characters  that 
you  must  keep  them  out  by  main  force  of  bar,  or  that  you 
are  yourself  of  a character  requiring  to  be  kept  inside  in 
the  same  manner.  Your  iron  railing  always  means  thieves 
outside,  or  Bedlam  inside  ; — it  can  mean  nothing  else  than 
that.  If  the  people  outside  were  good  for  anything,  a hint 
in  the  way  of  fence  would  be  enough  for  them;  but 
because  they  are  violent  and  at  enmity  with  you,  you  are 
forced  to  put  the  close  bars  and  the  spikes  at  the  top.  Last 
summer  I was  lodging  for  a little  while  in  a cottage  in  the 
country,  and  in  front  of  my  low  window  there  were,  first, 
some  beds  of  daisies,  then  a row  of  gooseberry  and  currant 
bushes,  and  then  a low  wall  about  three  feet  above  the 
ground,  covered  with  stone-cress.  Outside,  a corn-field, 
with  its  green  ears  glistening  in  the  sun,  and  a field  path 
through  it,  just  past  the  garden  gate.  From  my  window  I 
could  see  every  peasant  of  the  village  who  passed  that  way, 
with  basket  on  arm  for  market,  or  spade  on  shoulder  for 
field.  When  I was  inclined  for  society,  I could  lean  over 
my  wall,  and  talk  to  anybody ; when  I was  inclined  for 
science,  I could  botanize  all  along  the  top  of  my  wall — • 
there  were  four  species  of  stone-cress  alone  growing  on  it ; 
and  when  I was  inclined  for  exercise,  I could  jump  over 
my  wall,  backwards  and  forwards.  That’s  the  sort  of 


172 


THE  WORK  OF  IRON, 


[LECT.  Y. 


fence  to  have  in  a Christian  country ; not  a thing  which 
you  can’t  walk  inside  of  without  making  yourself  look 
like  a wild  beast,  nor  look  at  out  of  your  window  in  the 
morning  without  expecting  to  see  somebody  impaled  upon 
it  in  the  night. 

And  yet  farther,  observe  that  the  iron  railing  is  a useless 
fence — it  can  shelter  nothing,  and  support  nothing;  you 
can’t  nail  your  peaches  to  it,  nor  protect  your  flowers  with 
it,  nor  make  anything  whatever  out  of  its  costly  tyranny  ; 
and  besides  being  useless,  it  is  an  insolent  fence ; — it  says 
plainly  to  everybody  who  passes — “ You  may  be  an  honest 
person, — but,  also,  you  may  be  a thief:  honest  or  not,  you 
shall  not  get  in  here,  for  I am  a respectable  person,  and 
much  above  you  ; you  shall  only  see  what  a grand  place  I 
have  got  to  keep  you  out  of — look  here,  and  depart  in 
humiliation.” 

This,  however,  being  in  the  present  state  of  civilization 
a frequent  manner  of  discourse,  and  there  being  unfortu- 
nately many  districts  where  the  iron  railing  is  unavoidable, 
it  yet  remains  a question  whether  you  need  absolutely 
make  it  ugly,  no  less  than  significative  of  evil.  You  must 
have  railings  round  your  squares  in  London,  and  at  the 
sides  of  your  areas ; but  need  you  therefore  have  railings 
so  ugly  that  the  constant  sight  of  them  is  enough  to  neu- 
tralise the  effect  of  all  the  schools  of  art  in  the  kingdom  ? 
You  need  not.  Far  from  such  necessity,  it  is  even  in  your 
power  to  turn  all  your  police  force  of  iron  bars  actually 


LECT.  Y.J  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


173 


into  drawing  masters,  and  natural  historians.  Not,  of 
course,  without  some  trouble  and  some  expense ; you  can 
do  nothing  much  worth  doing,  in  this  world,  without 
trouble,  you  can  get  nothing  much  worth  having,  without 
expense.  The  main  question  is  only — what  is  worth  doing 
and  having  : — Consider,  therefore,  if  this  be  not.  Here  is 
your  iron  railing,  as  yet,  an  uneducated  monster ; a som- 
bre seneschal,  incapable  of  any  words,  except  his  perpetual 
“Keep  out!”  and  “Away  with  you!”  Would  it  not  be 
worth  some  trouble  and  cost  to  turn  this  ungainly  ruffian 
porter  into  a well-educated  servant ; who,  while  he  was 
severe  as  ever  in  forbidding  entrance  to  evilly  disposed 
people,  should  yet  have  a kind  word  for  well-disposed 
people,  and  a pleasant  look,  and  a little  useful  information 
at  his  command,  in  case  he  should  be  asked  a question  by 
the  passers-by  ? 

We  have  not  time  to-night  to  look  at  many  examples  of 
ironwork ; and  those  I happen  to  have  by  me  are  not  the 
best;  ironwork  is  not  one  of  my  special  subjects  of  study; 
so  that  I only  have  memoranda  of  bits  that  happened  to 
come  into  picturesque  subjects  which  I was  drawing  for 
other  reasons.  Besides,  external  ironwork  is  more  difficult 
to  find  good  than  any  other  sort  of  ancient  art ; for  when 
it  gets  rusty  and  broken,  people  are  sure,  if  they  can  afford 
it,  to  send  it  to  the  old  iron  shop,  and  get  a fine  new  grating 
instead ; and  in  the  great  cities  of  Italy,  the  old  iron  is 
thus  nearly  all  gone : the  best  bits  I remember  in  the  open 


174  THE  WORK  OF  IEOH,  [LEJT.  V. 

air  were  at  Brescia ; — fantastic  sprays  of  laurel-like  foliage 
rising  over  the  garden  gates ; and  there  are  a few  fine  frag- 
ments at  Verona,  and  some  good  trellis- work  enclosing  the 
Scala  tombs ; but  on  the  whole,  the  most  interesting  pieces, 
though  by  no  means  the  purest  in  style,  are  to  be  found 
in  out-of-the-way  provincial  towns,  where  people  do  not 
care,  or  are  unable,  to  make  polite  alterations.  The  little 
town  of  Bellinzona,  for  instance,  on  the  south  of  the  Alps, 
and  that  of  Sion  on  the  north,  have  both  of  them  complete 
schools  of  ironwork  in  their  balconies  and  vineyard  gates. 
That  of  Bellinzona  is  the  best,  though  not  very  old — I 
suppose  most  of  it  of  the  seventeenth  century ; still  it  is 
very  quaint  and  beautiful.  Here,  for  example,  (see  frontis- 
piece,) are  two  balconies,  from  two  different  houses ; one 
has  been  a cardinal’s,  and  the  hat  is  the  principal  orna- 
ment of  the  balcony ; its  tassels  being  wrought  with 
delightful  delicacy  and  freedom;  and  catching  the  eye 
clearly  even  among  the  mass  of  rich  wreathed  leaves. 
These  tassels  and  strings  are  precisely  the  kind  of  subject 
fit  for  ironwork — noble  in  ironwork,  they  would  have  been 
entirely  ignoble  in  marble,  on  the  grounds  above  stated. 
The  real  plant  of  oleander  standing  in  the  window  en- 
riches the  whole  group  of  lines  very  happily. 

The  other  balcony,  from  a very  ordinary -looking  house 
in  the  same  street,  is  much  more  interesting  in  its  details. 
It  is  shown  in  the  plate  as  it  appeared  last  summer,  with 
convolvulus  twined  about  the  bars,  the  arrow-shaped  living 


LECT.  V.] 


IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


175 


leaves  mingled  among  the  leaves  of  iron;  but  you  may 
see  in  the  centre  of  these  real  leaves  a cluster  of  lighter 
ones,  which  are  those  of  the  ironwork  itself.  This  cluster 
is  worth  giving  a little  larger  to  show  its  treatment.  Fig. 
2 (in  Appendix  Y.)  is  the  front  view  of  it : Fig.  4,  its 
profile.  It  is  composed  of  a large  tulip  in  the  centre ; then 
two  turkscap  lilies ; then  two  pinks,  a little  convention- 
alized; then  two  narcissi;  then  two  nondescripts,  or,  at 
least,  flowers  I do  not  know ; and  then  two  dark  buds,  and 
a few  leaves.  I say,  dark  buds,  for  all  these-  flowers  have 
been  coloured  in  their  original  state.  The  plan  of  the 
group  is  exceedingly  simple : it  is  all  enclosed  in  a pointed 
arch  (Fig.  3,  Appendix  Y.) : the  large  mass  of  the  tulip 
forming  the  apex ; a six-foiled  star  on  each  side ; then  a 
jagged  star;  then  a five-foiled  star;  then  an  unjagged  star 
or  rose ; finally  a small  bud,  so  as  to  establish  relation  and 
cadence  through  the  whole  group.  The  profile  is  very 
free  and  fine,  and  the  upper  bar  of  the  balcony  exceed- 
ingly beautiful  in  effect ; — none  the  less  so  on  account  of 
the  marvellously  simple  means  employed.  A thin  strip  of 
iron  is  bent  over  a square  rod ; out  of  the  edge  of  this  strip 
are  cut  a series  of  triangular  openings — widest  at  top,  leav- 
ing projecting  teeth  of  iron  (Appendix,  Fig.  5) ; then  each 
of  these  projecting  pieces  gets  a little  sharp  tap  with  the 
hammer  in  front,  which  beaks  its  edge  inwards,  tearing  it 
a little  open  at  the  same  time,  and  the  thing  is  done. 

The  common  forms  of  Swiss  ironwork  are  less  naturalis- 


176  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

tic  than  these  Italian  balconies,  depending  more  on  beauti- 
ful arrangements  of  various  curve  ; nevertheless,  there  has 
been  a rich  naturalist  school  at  Fribourg,  where  a few  bell- 
handles  are  still  left,  consisting  of  rods  branched  into 
laurel  and  other  leafage.  At  Geneva,  modern  improve- 
ments have  left  nothing ; but  at  Annecy,  a little  good  work 
remains ; the  balcony  of  its  old  hotel  de  ville  especially, 
with  a trout  of  the  lake — presumably  the  town  arms — form- 
ing its  central  ornament. 

I might  expatiate  all  night — if  you  would  sit  and  hear  me 
- — on  the  treatment  of  such  required  subject,  or  introduc- 
tion of  pleasant  caprice  by  the  old  workmen  ; but  we  have 
no  more  time  to  spare,  and  I must  quit  this  part  of  our 
subject — the  rather  as  I could  not  explain  to  you  the 
intrinsic  merit  of  such  ironwork  without  going  fully  into 
the  theory  of  curvilinear  design  ; only  let  me  leave  with 
you  this  one  distinct  assertion — that  the  quaint  beauty  and 
character  of  many  natural  objects,  such  as  intricate 
branches,  grass,  foliage  (especially  thorny  branches  and 
prickly  foliage),  as  well  as  that  of  many  animals,  plumed, 
spined,  or  bristled,  is  sculpturally  expressible  in  iron  only, 
and  in  iron  would  be  majestic  and  impressive  in  the  highest 
degree;  and  that  every  piece  of  metal  work  you  use  might 
be,  rightly  treated,  not  only  a superb  decoration,  but  a most 
valuable  abstract  of  portions  of  natural  forms,  holding  in 
dignity  precisely  the  same  relation  to  the  painted  represen- 
tation of  plants,  that  a statue  does  to  the  painted  form  of 


LECT.  V.] 


IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


177 


man.  It  is  difficult  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  grace  and 
interest  which  the  simplest  objects  possess  when  their  forms 
are  thus  abstracted  from  among  the  surrounding  of  rich 
circumstance  which  in  nature  disturbs  the  feebleness 
of  our  attention.  In  Plate  2,  a few  blades  of  com- 
mon green  grass,  and  a wild  leaf  or  two — just  as  they 
were  thrown  by  nature, — are  thus  abstracted  from  the 
associated  redundance  of  the  forms  about  them,  and  shown 
on  a dark  ground : every  cluster  of  herbage  would  furnish 
fifty  such  groups,  and  every  such  group  would  work  into 
iron  (fitting  it,  of  course,  rightly  to  its  service)  with  perfect 
ease,  and  endless  grandeur  of  result. 

III.  Iron  in  Policy. — Having  thus  obtained  some  idea 
of  the  use  of  iron  in  art,  as  dependent  on  its  ductility,  I need 
not,  certainly,  say  anything  of  its  uses  in  manufacture  and 
commerce ; we  all  of  us  know  enough, — perhaps  a little 
too  much — about  them.  So  I pass  lastly  to  consider  its 
uses  in  policy ; dependent  chiefly  upon  its  tenacity— that  is 
to  say,  on  its  power  of  bearing  a pull,  and  receiving  an 
edge.  These  powers,  which  enable  it  to  pierce,  to  bind,  and 
to  smite,  render  it  fit  for  the  three  great  instruments,  by 
which  its  political  action  may  be  simply  typified ; namely, 
the  Plough,  the  Fetter,  and  the  Sword. 

On  our  understanding  the  right  use  of  these  three  instru- 
ments, depend,  of  course,  all  our  power  as  a nation,  and  all 
our  happiness  as  individuals. 

1.  The  Plough.— I say,  first,  on  our  understanding  the 

8* 


178  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

right  use  of  the  plough,  with  which,  in  justice  to  the  fairest 
of  our  labourers,  we  must  always  associate  that  feminine 
plough — the  needle.  The  first  requirement  for  the  happi- 
ness of  a nation  is  that  it  should  understand  the  function  in 
this  world  of  these  two  great  instruments  : a happy  nation 
may  be  defined  as  one  in  which  the  husband’s  hand  is  on 
the  plough,  and  the  housewife’s  on  the  needle ; so  in  due 
time  reaping  its  golden  harvest,  and  shining  in  golden  ves- 
ture : and  an  unhappy  nation  is  one  which,  acknowledging 
no  use  of  plough  nor  needle,  will  assuredly  at  last  find  its 
storehouse  empty  in  the  famine,  and  its  breast  naked  to  the 
cold. 

Perhaps  you  think  this  is  a mere  truism,  which  I am 
wasting  your  time  in  repeating.  I wish  it  were. 

By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  suffering  and  crime  which 
exist  at  this  moment  in  civilized  Europe,  arises  simply 
from  people  not  understanding  this  truism — not  knowing 
that  produce  or  wealth  is  eternally  connected  by  the  laws 
of  heaven  and  earth  with  resolute  labour  ; but  hoping  in 
some  way  to  cheat  or  abrogate  this  everlasting  law  of  life, 
and  to  feed  where  they  have  not  furrowed,  and  be  warm 
where  they  have  not  woven. 

I repeat,  nearly  all  our  misery  and  crime  result  from  this 
one  misapprehension.  The  law  of  nature  is,  that  a certain 
quantity  of  work  is  necessary  to  produce  a certain  quantity 
of  good,  of  any  kind  whatever.  If  you  want  knowledge,  you 
must  toil  for  it:  if  food,  you  must  toil  for  it ; and  if  pleasure, 


LECT.  V.] 


IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


179 


you  must  toil  for  it.  But  men  do  not  acknowledge  this 
law,  or  strive  to  evade  it,  hoping  to  get  their  knowledge, 
and  food,  and  pleasure  for  nothing  ; and  in  this  effort  they 
either  fail  of  getting  them,  and  remain  ignorant  and  mise- 
rable, or  they  obtain  them  by  making  other  men  work  for 
their  benefit ; and  then  they  are  tyrants  and  robbers.  Yes, 
and  worse  than  robbers.  I am  not  one  who  in  the  least 
doubts  or  disputes  the  progress  of  this  century  in  many 
things  useful  to  mankind ; but  it  seems  to  me  a very  dark 
sign  respecting  us  that  we  look  with  so  much  indifference 
upon  dishonesty  and  cruelty  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth.  In 
the  dream  of  Nebuchadnezzar  it  was  only  the  feet  that 
were  part  of  iron  and  part  of  clay ; but  many  of  us  are 
now  getting  so  cruel  in  our  avarice,  that  it  seems  as  if,  in 
us,  the  heart  were  part  of  iron,  and  part  of  clay. 

From  what  I have  heard  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  town, 
I do  not  doubt  but  that  I may  be  permitted  to  do  here 
what  I have  found  it  usually  thought  elsewhere  highly 
improper  and  absurd  to  do,  namely,  trace  a few  Bible 
sentences  to  their  practical  result. 

You  cannot  but  have  noticed  how  often  in  those  parts  of 
the  Bible  which  are  likely  to  be  oftenest  opened  when 
people  look  for  guidance,  comfort,  or  help  in  the  affairs  of 
daily  life,  namely,  the  Psalms  and  Proverbs,  mention  is 
made  of  the  guilt  attaching  to  the  Oppression  of  the  poor. 
Observe : not  the  neglect  of  them,  but  the  Oppression  of 
them:  the  word  is  as  frequent  as  it  is  strange.  You  can 


180  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

hardly  open  either  of  those  books,  but  somewhere  in  their 
pages  you  will  find  a description  of  the  wicked  man’s 
attempts  against  the  poor : such  as — “ He  doth  ravish  the 
poor  when  he  getteth  him  into  his  net.” 

“He  sitteth  in  the  lurking  places  of  the  villages;  his 
eyes  are  privily  set  against  the  poor.” 

“In  his  pride  he  doth  persecute  the  poor,  and  blesseth 
the  covetous,  whom  God  abhorreth.” 

“ His  mouth  is  full  of  deceit  and  fraud ; in  the  secret 
places  doth  he  murder  the  innocent.  Have  the  workers  of 
iniquity  no  knowledge,  who  eat  up  my  people  as  they  eat 
bread?  They  have  draWn  out  the  sword,  and  bent  the 
bow,  to  cast  down  the  poor  and  needy.” 

“ They  are  corrupt,  and  speak  wickedly  concerning 
oppression.” 

“Pride  compasseth  them  about  as  a chain,  and  violence 
as  a garment.” 

“ Their  poison  is  like  the  poison  of  a serpent.  Ye  weigh 
the  violence  of  your  hands  in  the  earth.” 

Yes  : “ Ye  weigh  the  violence  of  your  hands  : ” — weigh 
these  words  as  well.  The  last  things  we  ever  usually  think 
of  weighing  are  Bible  words.  We  like  to  dream  and  dis- 
pute over  them ; but  to  weigh  them,  and  see  what  their 
true  contents  are — anything  but  that.  Yet,  weigh  these ; 
for  I have  purposely  taken  all  these  verses,  perhaps  more 
striking  to  you  read  in  this  connection,  than  separately  in 
their  places,  out  of  the  Psalms,  because,  for  all  people 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  181 

belonging  to  tbe  Established  Church  of  this  country  these 
Psalms  are  appointed  lessons,  portioned  out  to  them  by 
their  clergy  to  be  read  once  through  every  month.  Pre- 
sumably, therefore,  whatever  portions  of  Scripture  we  may 
pass  by  or  forget,  these  at  all  events,  must  be  brought 
continually  to  our  observance  as  useful  for  direction  of  daily 
life.  Now,  do  we  ever  ask  ourselves  what  the  real  meaning 
of  these  passages  may  be,  and  who  these  wicked  people 
are,  who  are  “ murdering  the  innocent?  ” You  know  it  is 
rather  singular  language  this! — rather  strong  language,  we 
might,  perhaps,  call  it — hearing  it  for  the  first  time. 
Murder ! and  murder  of  innocent  people ! — nay,  even  a 
sort  of  cannibalism.  Eating  people, — yes,  and  God’s 
people,  too— eating  My  people  as  if  they  were  bread ! 
swords  drawn,  bows  bent,  poison  of  serpents  mixed ! 
violence  of  hands  weighed,  measured,  and  trafficked  with 
as  so  much  coin ! where  is  all  this  going  on  ? Do  you  sup- 
pose it  was  only  going  on  in  the  time  of  David,  and  that 
nobody  but  Jews  ever  murder  the  poor?  If  so,  it  would 
surely  be  wiser  not  to  mutter  and  mumble  for  our  daily 
lessons  what  does  not  concern  us;  but  if  there  be  any 
chance  that  it  may  concern  us,  and  if  this  description,  in 
the  Psalms,  of  human  guilt  is  at  all  generally  applicable,  as 
the  descriptions  in  the  Psalms  of  human  sorrow  are,  may 
it  not  be  advisable  to  know  wherein  this  guilt  is  being  com- 
mitted round  about  -us,  or  by  ourselves  ? and  when  we  take 
the  words  of  the  Bible  into  our  mouths  in  a congregational 


182  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  Y. 

way,  to  be  sure  whether  we  mean  merely  to  chant  a piece 
of  melodious  poetry  relating  to  other  people — (we  know 
not  exactly  to  whom) — or  to  assert  our  belief  in  facts  bear- 
ing somewhat  stringently  on  ourselves  and  our  daily 
business.  And  if  you  make  up  your  minds  to  do  this  no 
longer,  and  take  pains  to  examine  into  the  matter,  you  will 
find  that  these  strange  words,  occurring  as  they  do,  not  in 
a few  places  only,  but  almost  in  every  alternate  psalm  and 
every  alternate  chapter  of  proverb,  or  prophecy,  with 
tremendous  reiteration,  were  not  written  for  one  nation  or 
one  time  only ; but  for  all  nations  and  languages,  for  all 
places  and  all  centuries ; and  it  is  as  true  of  the  wicked 
man  now  as  ever  it  was  of  Nabal  or  Dives,  that  “his  eyes 
are  set  against  the  poor.” 

Set  against  the  poor,  mind  you.  Not  merely  set  away 
from  the  poor,  so  as  to  neglect  or  lose  sight  of  them,  but 
set  against,  so  as  to  afflict  and  destro}r  them.  This  is  the 
main  point  I want  to  fix  your  attention  upon.  You  will 
often  hear  sermons  about  neglect  or  carelessness  of  the  poor. 
But  neglect  and  carelessness  are  not  at  all  the  points.  The 
Bible  hardly  ever  talks  about  neglect  of  the  poor.  It  always 
talks  of  oppression  of  the  poor — a very  different  matter.  It 
does  not  merely  speak  of  passing  by  on  the  other  side,  and 
binding  up  no  wounds,  but  of  drawing  the  sword  and  our- 
selves smiting  the  men  down.  It  does  not  charge  us  with 
being  idle  in  the  pest-house,  and  giving  no  medicine,  but 
with  being  busy  in  the  pest-house,  and  giving  much  poison. 


LECT.  V.] 


IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


183 


May  we  not  advisedly  look  into  this  matter  a little,  even 
to-night,  and  ask  first,  Who  are  these  poor  ? 

No  country  is,  or  ever  will  be,  without  them : that  is  to 
say,  without  the  class  which  cannot,  on  the  average,  do 
more  by  its  labour  than  provide  for  its  subsistence,  and 
which  has  no  accumulations  of  property  laid  by  on  any 
considerable  scale.  Now  there  are  a certain  number  of 
this  class  whom  we  cannot  oppress  with  much  severity. 
An  able-bodied  and  intelligent  workman — sober,  honest, 
and  industrious,  will  almost  always  command  a fair  price 
for  his  work,  and  lay  by  enough  in  a few  years  to  enable 
him  to  hold  his  own  in  the  labour  market.  But  all  men  are 
not  able-bodied,  nor  intelligent,  nor  industrious ; and  you 
cannot  expect  them  to  be.  Nothing  appears  to  me  at  once 
more  ludicrous  and  more  melancholy  than  the  way  the 
people  of  the  present  age  usually  talk  about  the  morals  of 
labourers.  You  hardly  ever  address  a labouring  man  upon 
his  prospects  in  life,  without  quietly  assuming  that  he  is  to 
possess,  at  starting,  as  a small  moral  capital  to  begin  with, 
the  virtue  of  Socrates,  the  philosophy  of  Plato,  and  the 
heroism  of  Epaminondas.  “Be  assured,  my  good  man,” 
— you  say  to  him, — “ that  if  you  work  steadily  for  ten  hours 
a day  all  your  life  long,  and  if  you  drink  nothing  but 
water,  or  the  very  mildest  beer,  and  live  on  very  plain 
food,  and  never  lose  your  temper,  and  go  to  church 
every  Sunday,  and  always  remain  content  in  the  position 
in  which  Providence  has  placed  you,  and  never  grumble, 


184  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

nor  swear ; and  always  keep  your  clotlies  decent,  and  rise 
early,  and  use  every  opportunity  of  improving  yourself, 
you  will  get  on  very  well,  and  never  come  to  the  parish.” 

All  this  is  exceedingly  true ; but  before  giving  the  advice 
so  confidently,  it  would  be  well  if  we  sometimes  tried  it 
practically  ourselves,  and  spent  a year  or  s.o  at  some  hard 
manual  labour,  not  of  an  entertaining  kind — ploughing  or 
digging,  for  instance,  with  a very  moderate  allowance  of 
beer ; nothing  but  bread  and  cheese  for  dinner ; no  papers 
nor  muffins  in  the  morning ; no  sofas  nor  magazines  at 
night ; one  small  room  for  parlour  and  kitchen  ; and  a large 
family  of  children  always  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  If 
we  think  we  could,  under  these  circumstances,  enact  Socrates 
or  Epaminondas  entirely  to  our  own  satisfaction,  we  shall 
be  somewhat  justified  in  requiring  the  same  behaviour  from 
our  poorer  neighbours  ; but  if  not,  we  should  surely  consi- 
der a little  whether  among  the  various  forms  of  the  oppression 
of  the  poor,  we  may  not  rank  as  one  of  the  first  and  likeliest 
— the  oppression  of  expecting  too  much  from  them. 

But  let  this  pass ; and  let  it  be  admitted  that  we  can 
never  be  guilty  of  oppression  towards  the  sober,  industrious, 
intelligent,  exemplary  labourer.  There  will  always  be  in 
the  world  some  who  are  not  altogether  intelligent  and 
exemplary ; we  shall,  I believe,  to  the  end  of  time  find  the 
majority  somewhat  unintelligent,  a little  inclined  to  be  idle, 
and  occasionally,  on  Saturday  night,  drunk ; we  must  even 
be  prepared  to  hear  of  reprobates  who  like  skittles  on  Sunday 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


185 


morning  better  than  prayers ; and  of  unnatural  parents 
who  send  their  children  out  to  beg  instead  of  to  go  to 
school. 

Now  these  are  the  kind  of  people  whom  you  can  oppress, 
and  whom  you  do  oppress,  and  that  to  purpose, — and  with 
all  the  more  cruelty  and  the  greater  sting,  because  it  is  just 
their  own  fault  that  puts  them  into  your  power.  You 
know  the  words  about  wicked  people  are,  “ He  doth  ravish 
the  poor  when  he  getteth  him  into  his  net.”  This  getting 
into  the  net  is  constantly  the  fault  or  folly  of  the  sufferer — 
his  own  heedlessness  or  his  own  indolence ; but  after  he  is 
once  in  the  net,  the  oppression  of  him,  and  making  the  most 
of  his  distress,  are  ours.  The  nets  which  we  use  against 
the  poor  are  just  those  worldly  embarrassments  which  either 
their  ignorance  *or  their  improvidence  are  almost  certain  at 
some  time  or  other  to  bring  them  into:  then,  just  at  the 
time  when  we  ought  to  hasten  to  help  them,  and  disentan- 
gle them,  and  teach  them  how  to  manage  better  in  future, 
we  rush  forward  to  pillage  them,  and  force  all  we  can  out 
of  them  in  their  adversity.  For,  to  take  one  instance  only, 
remember  this  is  literally  and  simply  what  we  do,  when- 
ever we  buy,  or  try  to  buy,  cheap  goods — goods  offered  at  a 
price  which  we  know  cannot  be  remunerative  for  the  labour 
involved  in  them.  Whenever  we  buy  such  goods,  remem- 
ber we  are  stealing  somebody’s  labour.  Don’t  let  us  mince 
the  matter.  I say,  in  plain  Saxon,  stealing — taking  from 
him  the  proper  reward  of  his  work,  and  putting  it  into  our 


186  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

own  pocket.  You  know  well  enough  that  the  thing  could 
not  have  been  offered  you  at  that  price,  unless  distress  of 
some”  kind  had  forced  the  producer  to  part  with  it.  You 
take  advantage  of  this  distress,  and  you  force  as  much  out 
of  him  as  you  can  under  the  circumstances.  The  old 
barons  of  the  middle  ages  used,  in  general,  the  thumbscrew 
to  extort  property ; we  moderns  use,  in  preference,  hunger, 
or  domestic  affliction : but  the  fact  of  extortion  remains  pre- 
cisely the  same.  Whether  we  force  the  man’s  property 
from  him  by  pinching  his  stomach,  or  pinching  his  fingers, 
makes  some  difference  anatomically ; — morally,  none  what- 
soever : we  use  a form  of  torture  of  some  sort  in  order  to 
make  him  give  up  his  property ; we  use,  indeed,  the  man’s 
own  anxieties,  instead  of  the  rack ; and  his  immediate  peril 
of  starvation,  instead  of  the  pistol  at  the  head ; but  other- 
wise we  differ  from  Front  de  Boeuf,  or  Dick  Turpin,  merely 
in  being  less  dexterous,  more  cowardly,  and  more  cruel. 
More  cruel,  I say,  because  the  fierce  baron  and  the  redoubted 
highwayman  are  reported  to  have  robbed,  at  least  by  pre- 
ference, only  the  rich ; we  steal  habitually  from  the  poor. 
We  buy  our  liveries,  and  gild  our  prayer-books,  with  pil- 
fered pence  out  of  children’s  and  sick  men’s  wages,  and 
thus  ingeniously  dispose  a given  quantity  of  Theft,  so  that 
it  may  produce  the  largest  possible  measure  of  delicately- 
distributed  suffering. 

But  this  is  only  one  form  of  common  oppression  of  the 
poor — only  one  way  of  taking  our  hands  off  the  plough- 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


187 


handle,  and  binding  another’s  upon  it.  This  first  way  of 
doing  it  is  the  economical  way — the  way  preferred  by  pru- 
dent and  virtuous  people.  The  bolder  way  is  the  acquisi- 
tive way: — the  way  of  speculation.  You  know  we  are 
considering  at  present  the  various  modes  in  which  a nation 
corrupts  itself,  by  not  acknowledging  the  eternal  connec- 
tion between  its  plough  and  its  pleasure ; — by  striving  to 
get  pleasure,  without  working  for  it.  Well,  I say  the  first 
and  commonest  way  of  doing  so  is  to  try  to  get  the  product 
of  other  people’s  work,  and  enjoy  it  ourselves,  by  cheapen- 
ing their  labour  in  times  of  distress  ; then  the  second  way  is 
that  grand  one  of  watching  the  chances  of  the  market  ; — 
the  way  of  speculation.  Of  course  there  are  some  specula- 
tions that  are  fair  and  honest — speculations  made  with  our 
own  money,  and  which  do  not  involve  in  their  success  the 
loss,  by  others,  of  what  we  gain.  But  generally  modern 
speculation  involves  much  risk  to  others,  with  chance  of 
profit  only  to  ourselves : even  in  its  best  conditions  it 
is  merely  one  of  the  forms  of  gambling  or  treasure-hunt- 
ing ; it  is  either  leaving  the  steady  plough  and  the 
steady  pilgrimage  of  life,  to  look  for  silver  mines  beside 
the  way ; or  else  it  is  the  full  stop  beside  the  dice- 
tables  in  Vanity  Fair — investing  all  the  thoughts  and  pas- 
sions of  the  soul  in  the  fall  of  the  cards,  and  choosing 
rather  the  wild  accidents  of  idle  fortune  than  the  calm  and 
accumulative  rewards  of  toil.  And  this  is  destructive 
enough,  at  least  to  our  peace  and  virtue.  But  it  is  usually 


188  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

destructive  of  far  more  than  our  peace,  or  our  virtue. 
Have  you  ever  deliberately  set  yourselves  to  imagine  and 
measure  the  suffering,  the  guilt,  and  the  mortality  caused 
necessarily  by  the  failure  of  any  large-dealing  merchant, 
or  largely -branched  bank  ? Take  it  at  the  lowest  possible 
supposition — count,  at  the  fewest  you  choose,  the  families 
whose  means  of  support  have  been  involved  in  the  cata- 
strophe. Then,  on  the  morning  after  the  intelligence  of 
ruin,  let  us  go  forth  amongst  them  in  earnest  thought ; let 
us  use  that  imagination  which  we  waste  so  often  on  ficti- 
tious sorrow,  to  measure  the  stern  facts  of  that  multitudi- 
nous distress  ; strike  open  the  private  doors  of  their  cham- 
bers, and  enter  silently  into  the  midst  of  the  domestic 
misery ; look  upon  the  old  men,  who  had  reserved  for 
their  failing  strength  some  remainder  of  rest  in  the  evening- 
tide  of  life,  cast  helplessly  back  into  its  trouble  and  tumult ; 
look  upon  the  active  strength  of  middle  age  suddenly 
blasted  into  incapacity — its  hopes  crushed,  and  its  hardly- 
earned  rewards  snatched  away  in  the  same  instant — at  once 
the  heart  withered,  and  the  right  arm  snapped  ; look  upon 
the  piteous  children,  delicately  nurtured,  whose  soft  eyes, 
now  large  with  wonder  at  their  parents’  grief,  must  soon 
be  set  in  the  dimness  of  famine ; and,  far  more  than  all 
this,  look  forward  to  the  length  of  sorrow  beyond — to  the 
hardest  labour  of  life,  now  to  be  undergone  either  in  all 
the  severity  of  unexpected  and  inexperienced  trial,  or  else, 
more  bitter  still,  to  be  begun  again,  and  endured  for  the 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


189 


second  time,  amidst  the  ruins  of  cherished  hopes  and  the 
feebleness  of  advancing  years,  embittered  by  the  continual 
sting  and  taunt  of  the  inner  feeling  that  it  has  all  been 
brought  about,  not  by  the  fair  course  of  appointed  circum- 
stance, but  by  miserable  chance  and  wanton  treachery; 
and,  last  of  all,  look  beyond  this — to  the  shattered  desti- 
nies of  those  who  have  faltered  under  the  trial,  and  sunk 
past  recovery  to  despair.  And  then  consider  whether  the 
hand  which  has  poured  this  poison  into  all  the  springs  of 
life  be  one  whit  less  guiltily  red  with  human  blood  than 
that  which  literally  pours  the  hemlock  into  the  cup,  or 
guides  the  dagger  to  the  heart?  We  read  with  horror  of 
the  crimes  of  a Borgia  or  a Tophana  ; but  there  never  lived 
. Borgias  such  as  live  now  in  the  midst  of  us.  The  cruel 
lady  of  Ferrara  slew  only  in  the  strength  of  passion — she 
slew  only  a few,  those  who  thwarted  her  purposes  or  who 
vexed  her  soul ; she  slew  sharply  and  suddenly,  embitter- 
ing the  fate  of  her  victims  with  no  foretastes  of  destruction, 
no  prolongations  of  pain  ; and,  finally  and  chiefly,  she  slew, 
not  without  remorse,  nor  without  pity.  But  we , in  no 
storm  of  passion — in  no  blindness  of  wrath, — we,  in  calm 
and  clear  and  untempted  selfishness,  pour  our  poison — not 
for  a few  only,  but  for  multitudes not  for  those  who 
have  wronged  us,  or  resisted,— but  for  those  who  have 
trusted  us  and  aided  ; — we,  not  with  sudden  gift  of  merciful 
and  unconscious  death,  but  with  slow  waste  of  hunger  and 
weary  rack  of  disappointment  and  despair ; — we,  last  and 


190  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V. 

chiefly,  do  our  murdering,  not  with  any  pauses  of  pity  or 
scorching  of  conscience,  but  in  facile  and  forgetful  calm  of 
mind— and  so,  forsooth,  read  day  by  day,  complacently,  as 
if  they  meant  any  one  else  than  ourselves,  the  words  that 
for  ever  describe  the  wicked  : u Th q poison  of  asps  is  under 
their  lips,  and  their  feet  are  swift  to  shed  blood” 

You  may  indeed,  perhaps,  think  there  is  some  excuse  for 
many  in  this  matter,  just  because  the  sin  is  so  unconscious ; 
that  the  guilt  is  not  so  great  when  it  is  unapprehended,  and 
that  it  is  much  more  pardonable  to  slay  heedlessly  than 
purposefully.  I believe  no  feeling  can  be  more  mistaken, 
and  that  in  reality,  and  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  the  callous 
indifference  which  pursues  its  own  interests  at  any  cost  of 
life,  though  it  does  not  definitely  adopt  the  purpose  of  sin, 
is  a state  of  mind  at  once  more  heinous  and  more  hopeless 
than  the  wildest  aberrations  of  ungoverned  passion.  There 
may  be,  in  the  last  case,  some  elements  of  good  and  of 
redemption  still  mingled  in  the  character ; but,  in  the  other, 
few  or  none.  There  may  be  hope  for  the  man  who  has 
slain  his  enemy  in  anger ; hope  even  for  the  man  who  has 
betted  his  friend  in  fear ; but  what  hope  for  him  who 
trades  in  unregarded  blood,  and  builds  his  fortune  on  unre- 
pented treason  ? 

But,  however  this  may  be,  and  wherever  you  may  think 
yourselves  bound  in  justice  to  impute  the  greater  sin,  be 
assured  that  the  question  is  one  of  responsibilities  only,  not 
of  facts.  The  definite  result  of  all  our  modern  haste  to  be 


LECT.  Y.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY.  191 

ricli  is  assuredly,  and  constantly,  the  murder  of  a certain 
number  of  persons  by  our  hands  every  year.  I have  not 
time  to  go  into  the  details,  of  another — on  the  whole,  the 
broadest  and  terriblest  way  in  which  we  cause  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  poor — namely,  the  way  of  luxury  and  waste, 
destroying,  in  improvidence,  what  might  have  been  the 
support  of  thousands  ;*  but  if  you  follow  out  the  subject 
for  yourselves  at  home — and  what  I have  endeavoured  to 
lay  before  you  to-night  will  only  be  useful  to  you  if  you  do 
— you  will  find  that  wherever  and  whenever  men  are  en- 
deavouring to  make  money  hastily , and  to  avoid  the  labour 
which  Providence  has  appointed  to  be  the  only  source  of 
honourable  profit; — and  also  wherever  and  whenever  they 
permit  themselves  to  spend  it  luxuriously , without  reflecting 
how  far  they  are  misguiding  the  labour  of  others ; — there  and 
then,  in  either  case,  they  are  literally  and  infallibly  causing, 
for  their  own  benefit  or  their  own  pleasure,  a certain  annual 

* The  analysis  of  this  error  will  be  found  completely  carried  out  in 
my  lectures  on  the  political  economy  of  art.  And  it  is  as  error  worth 
analyzing ; for  until  it  is  finally  trodden  under  foot,  no  healthy  political, 
economical,  or  moral  action  is  possible  in  any  state.  I do  not  say  this 
impetuously  or  suddenly,  for  I have  investigated  this  subject  as  deeply, 
and  as  long,  as  my  own  special  subject  of  art;  and  the  principles  of 
political  economy  which  I have  stated  in  those  lectures  are  as  sure  as 
the  principles  of  Euclid.  Foolish  readers  doubted  their  certainty,  be- 
cause I told  them  I had  11  never  read  any  books  on  Political  Economy.” 
Did  they  suppose  I had  got  my  knowledge  of  art  by  reading  books  ? 


192  THE  W0EK  OF  IEOH,  [LECT.  Y. 

number  of  human  deaths;  that,  therefore,  the  choice  given 
to  every  man  born  into  this  world  is,  simply,  whether  he 
will  be  a labourer,  or  an  assassin ; and  that  whosoever  has 
not  his  hand  on  the  Stilt  of  the  plough,  has  it  on  the  Hilt 
of  the  dagger. 

It  would  also  be  quite  vain  for  me  to  endeavour  to  follow 
out  this  evening  the  lines  of  thought  which  would  be  sug- 
gested by  the  other  two  great  political  uses  of  iron  in  the 
Fetter  and  the  Sword:  a few  words  only  I must  permit 
myself  respecting  both. 

2.  The  Fettee. — As  the  plough  is  the  typical  instru- 
ment of  industry,  so  the  fetter  is  the  typical  instrument  of 
the  restraint  or  subjection  necessary  in  a nation — either 
literally,  for  its  evil-doers,  or  figurative^,  in  accepted  laws, 
for  its  wise  and  good  men.  You  have  to  choose  between 
this  figurative  and  literal  use;  for  depend  upon  it,  the 
more  laws  you  accept,  the  fewer  penalties  you  will  have  to 
endure,  and  the  fewer  punishments  to  enforce.  For  wise 
laws  and  just  restraints  are  to  a noble  nation  not  chains, 
but  chain  mail — strength  and  defence,  though  something 
also  of  an  incumbrance.  And  this  necessity  of  restraint, 
remember,  is  just  as  honourable  to  man  as  the  necessity  of 
labour.  You  hear  every  day  greater  numbers  of  foolish 
people  speaking  about  liberty,  as  if  it  were  such  an 
honourable  thing:  so  far  from  being  that,  it  is,  on  the 
whole,  and  in  the  broadest  sense,  dishonourable,  and  an 
attribute  of  the  lower  creatures.  No  human  being,  how- 


LECT.  V.] 


IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


198 


ever  great  or  powerful,  was  ever  so  free  as  a fish.  There 
is  always  something  that  he  must,  or  must  not  do ; while 
the  fish  may  do  whatever  he  likes.  All  the  kingdoms  of 
the  world  put  together  are  not  half  so  large  as  the  sea,  and 
all  the  railroads  and  wheels  that  ever  were,  or  will  be,  in- 
vented are  not  so  easy  as  fins.  You  will  find,  on  fairly 
thinking  of  it,  that  it  is  his  Kestraint  which  is  honourable 
to  man,  not  his  Liberty ; and,  what  is  more,  it  is  restraint 
which  is  honourable  even  in  the  lower  animals.  A butterfly 
is  much  more  free  than  a bee ; but  you  honour  the  bee 
more,  just  because  it  is  subject  to  certain  laws  which  fit  it 
for  orderly  function  in  bee  society.  And  throughout  the 
world,  of  the  two  abstract  things,  liberty  and  restraint, 
restraint  is  always  the  more  honourable.  It  is  true,  indeed, 
that  in  these  and  all  other  matters  you  never  can  reason 
finally  from  the  abstraction,  for  both  liberty  and  restraint 
are  good  when  they  are  nobly  chosen,  and  both  are  bad 
when  they  are  basely  chosen ; but  of  the  two,  I repeat,  it 
is  restraint  which  characterizes  the  higher  creature,  and 
betters  the  lower  creature:  and,  from  the  ministering  of 
the  archangel  to  the  labour  of  the  insect, — from  the  pois- 
ing of  the  planets  to  the  gravitation  of  a grain  of  dust, — 
the  power  and  glory  of  all  creatures,  and  all  matter,  consist 
in  their  obedience,  not  in  their  freedom.  The  Sun  has  no 
liberty — a dead  leaf  has  much.  The  dust  of  which  you 
are  formed  has  no  liberty.  Its  liberty  will  come — with  its 
corruption. 


9 


194  THE  WORK  OF  IROH,  [LECT.  V. 

And,  therefore,  I say  boldly,  though  it  seems  a strange 
thing  to  say  in  England,  that  as  the  first  power  of  a nation 
consists  in  knowing  how  to  guide  the  Plough,  its  second 
power  consists  in  knowing  how  to  wear  the  Fetter 

3.  The  Sword.— And  its  third  power,  which  perfects  it 
as  a nation,  consists  in  knowing  how  to  wield  the  sword,  so 
that  the  three  talismans  of  national  existence  are  expressed 
in  these  three  short  words— Labour,  Law,  and  Courage. 

This  last  virtue  we  at  least  possess ; and  all  that  is  to  be 
alleged  against  us  is  that  we  do  not  honour  it  enough.  I 
do  not  mean  honour  by  acknowledgment  of  service,  though 
sometimes  we  are  slow  in  doing  even  that.  But  we  do  not 
honour  it  enough  in  consistent  regard  to  the  lives  and  souls 
of  our  soldiers.  How  wantonly  we  have  wasted  their  lives 
you  have  seen  lately  in  the  reports  of  their  mortality  by  dis- 
ease, which  a little  care  and  science  might  have  prevented ; 
but  we  regard  their  souls  less  than  their  lives,  by  keeping 
them  in  ignorance  and  idleness,  and  regarding  them  merely 
as  instruments  of  battle.  The  argument  brought  forward 
for  the  maintenance  of  a standing  army  usually  refers  only 
to  expediency  in  the  case  of  unexpected  war,  whereas,  one 
of  the  chief  reasons  for  the  maintenance  of  an  army  is  the 
advantage  of  the  military  system  as  a method  of  education. 
The  most  fiery  and  headstrong,  who  are  often  also  the  most 
gifted  and  generous  of  your  youths,  have  always  a tenden- 
cy both  in  the  lower  and  upper  classes  to  offer  themselves 
for  your  soldiers : others,  weak  and  unserviceable  in  a civil 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


195 


capacity,  are  tempted  or  entrapped  into  the  army  in  a for- 
tunate hour  for  them : out  of  this  fiery  or  uncouth  material, 
it  is  only  soldier’s  discipline  which  can  bring  the  full  value 
and  power.  Even  at  present,  by  mere  force  of  order  and 
authority,  the  army  is  the  salvation  of  myriads ; and  men 
who,  under  other  circumstances,  would  have  sunk  into 
lethargy  or  dissipation,  are  redeemed  into  noble  life  by  a 
service  which  at  once  summons  and  directs  their  energies. 
How  much  more  than  this  military  education  is  capable  of 
doing,  you  will  find  only  when  you  make  it  education 
indeed.  We  have  no  excuse  for  leaving  our  private  soldiers 
at  their  present  level  of  ignorance  and  want  of  refinement, 
for  we  shall  invariably  find  that,  both  among  officers  and 
men,  the  gentlest  and  best  informed  are  the  bravest ; still 
less  have  we  excuse  for  diminishing  our  army,  either  in  the 
present  state  of  political  events,  or,  as  I believe,  in  any 
other  conjunction  of  them  that  for  many  a year  will  be 
possible  in  this  world. 

You  may,  perhaps,  be  surprised  at  my  saying  this ; per- 
haps surprised  at  my  implying  that  war  itself  can  be  right, 
or  necessary,  or  noble  at  all.  Nor  do  I speak  of  all  war  as 
necessary,  nor  of  all  war  as  noble.  Both  peace  and  war  are 
noble  or  ignoble  according  to  their  kind  and  occasion.  No 
man  has  a profounder  sense  of  the  horror  and  guilt  of 
ignoble  war  than  I have : I have  personally  seen  its  effects, 
upon  nations,  of  unmitigated  evil,  on  soul  and  body,  with 
perhaps  as  much  pity,  and  as  much  bitterness  of  indigna- 


196  THE  WORK  OF  IRON,  [LECT.  V 

tion,  as  any  of  those  whom  you  will  hear  continually 
declaiming  in  the  cause  of  peace.  But  peace  may  be  sought 
in  two  ways.  One  way  is  as  Gideon  sought  it,  when  he 
built  his  altar  in  Ophrah,  naming  it,  “ God  send  peace,” 
yet  sought  this  peace  that  he  loved,  as  he  was  ordered  to 
seek  it,  and  the  peace  was  sent,  in  God’s  way : — “ the 
country  was  in  quietness  forty  years  in  the  days  of  Gide- 
on.” And  the  other  way  of  seeking  peace  is  as  Menahem 
sought  it  when  he  gave  the  King  of  Assyria  a thousand 
talents  of  silver,  that  “ his  hand  might  be  with  him.”  That 

is,  you  may  either  win  your  peace,  or  buy  it : — win  it,  by 
resistance  to  evil ; — buy  it,  by  compromise  with  evil.  You 
may  buy  your  peace,  with  silenced  consciences ; — you  may 
buy  it,  with  broken  vows, — buy  it,  with  lying  words, — buy 

it,  with  base  connivances, — buy  it,  with  the  blood  of  the 
slain,  and  the  cry  of  the  captive,  and  the  silence  of  lost 
souls — over  hemispheres  of  the  earth,  while  you  sit  smiling 
at  your  serene  hearths,  lisping  comfortable  prayers  evening 
and  morning,  and  counting  your  pretty  Protestant  beads 
(which  are  flat,  and  of  gold,  instead  of  round,  and  of  ebony, 
as  the  monks’  ones  were),  and  so  mutter  continually  to  your- 
selves, “ Peace,  peace,”  when  there  is  No  peace  ; but  only 
captivity  and  death,  for  you,  as  well  as  for  those  you  leave 
unsaved ; — and  yours  darker  than  theirs. 

I cannot  utter  to  you  what  I would  in  this  matter ; we 
all  see  too  dimly,  as  yet,  what  our  great  world-duties  are,  to 
allow  any  of  us  to  try  to  outline  their  enlarging  shadows. 


LECT.  V.]  IN  NATURE,  ART,  AND  POLICY. 


197 


But  think  over  what  I have  said,  and  as  you  return  to  your 
quiet  homes  to-night,  reflect  that  their  peace  was  not  won 
for  you  by  your  own  hands ; but  by  theirs  who  long  ago 
jeoparded  their  lives  for  you,  their  children  ; and  remember 
that  neither  this  inherited  peace,  nor  any  other,  can  be  kept, 
but  through  the  same  jeopardy.  No  peace  was  ever  won 
from  Fate  by  subterfuge  or  agreement ; no  peace  is  ever  in 
store  for  any  of  us,  but  that  which  we  shall  win  by  victory 
over  shame  or  sin ; — victory  over  the  sin  that  oppresses,  as 
well  as  over  that  which  corrupts.  For  many  a year  to 
come,  the  sword  of  every  righteous  nation  must  be  whet- 
ted to  save  or  to  subdue ; nor  will  it  be  by  patience  of 
others’  suffering,  but  by  the  offering  of  your  own,  that  you 
will  ever  draw  nearer  to  the  time  when  the  great  change 
shall  pass  upon  the  iron  of  the  earth ; — when  men  shall  beat 
their  swords  into  ploughshares,  and  their  spears  into  prun- 
ing-hooks ; neither  shall  they  learn  war  any  more. 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  I. 


EIGHT  AND  WEONGL 

Headers  who  are  using  my  “ Elements  of  Drawing”  may  be  surprised 
by  my  saying  here  that  Tintoret  may  lead  them  wrong ; while  in 
the  11  Elements,”  he  is  one  of  the  six  men  named  as  being  “ always 
right,” 

I bring  the  apparent  inconsistency  foward  at  the  beginning  of  this 
Appendix,  because  the  illustration  of  it  will  be  farther  useful  in  show- 
ing the  real  nature  of  the  self-contradiction  which  is  often  alleged 
against  me  by  careless  readers. 

It  is  not  only  possible,  but  a frequent  condition  of  human  action,  to 
do  right  and  be  right — yet  so  as  to  mislead  other  people  if  they  rashly 
imitate  the  thing  done.  For  there  are  many  rights  which  are  not 
absolutely,  but  relatively  right — right  only  for  that  person  to  do  under 
those  circumstances, — not  for  this  person  to  do  under  other  circum- 
stances. 

Thus  it  stands  between  Titian  and  Tintoret.  Titian  is  always  abso- 
lutely Eight.  You  may  imitate  him  with  entire  security  that  you  are 
doing  the  best  thing  that  can  possibly  be  done  for  the  purpose  in  hand. 
Tintoret  is  always  relatively  Eight — relatively  to  his  own  aims  and  pe- 
culiar powers.  But  you  must  quite  understand  Tintoret  before  you 
can  be  sure  what  his  aim  was,  and  why  he  was  then  right  in  doing 
what  would  not  be  right  always.  If,  however,  you  take  the  pains  thus 
to  understand  him,  he  becomes  entirely  instructive  and  exemplary,  just 
as  Titian  is ; and  therefore  I have  placed  him  among  those  who  are 
“ always  right,”  and  you  can  only  study  him  rightly  with  that  rever- 
ence for  him. 


9* 


202 


APPENDICES. 


Then  the  artists  who  are  named  as  “ admitting  question  of  right  and 
wrong,”  are  those  who  from  some  mischance  of  circumstance  or  short- 
coming in  their  education,  do  not  always  do  right,  even  with  relation 
to  their  own  aims  and  powers. 

Take  for  example  the  quality  of  imperfection  in  drawing  form. 
There  are  many  pictures  of  Tintoret  in  which  the  trees  are  drawn  with 
a few  curved  flourishes  of  the  brush  instead  of  leaves.  That  is  (abso- 
lutely) wrong.  If  you  copied  the  tree  as  a model,  you  would  be  going 
very  wrong  indeed.  But  it  is  relatively,  and  for  Tintoret’s  purposes, 
right.  In  the  nature  of  the  superficial  work  you  will  find  there  must 
have  been  a cause  for  it.  Somebody  perhaps  wanted  the  picture  in  a 
hurry  to  fill  a dark  corner.  Tintoret  good-naturedly  did  all  he  could — 
painted  the  figures  tolerably — had  five  minutes  left  only  for  the  trees, 
when  the  servant  came.  u Let  him  wait  another  five  minutes.”  And 
this  is  the  best  foliage  we  can  do  in  the  time.  Entirely,  admirably, 
unsurpassably  right,  under  the  conditions.  Titian  would  not  have 
worked  under  them,  but  Tintoret  was  kinder  and  humbler ; yet  he 
may  lead  you  wrong  if  you  don’t  understand  him.  Or,  perhaps,  an- 
other day,  somebody  came  in  while  Tintoret  was  at  work,  who  tor- 
mented Tintoret.  An  ignoble  person!  Titian  would  have  been 
polite  to  him,  and  gone  on  steadily  with  his  trees.  Tintoret  cannot 
stand  the  ignobleness ; it  is  unendurably  repulsive  and  discomfiting  to 
him.  “ The  Black  Plague  take  him — and  the  trees,  too ! Shall  such  a 
fellow  see  me  paint!”  And  the  trees  go  all  to  pieces.  This,  in  you, 
would  be  mere  ill-breeding  and  ill-temper.  In  Tintoret  it  was  one  of 
the  necessary  conditions  of  his  intensesensibility ; had  he  been  capable, 
then,  of  keeping  his  temper,  he  could  never  have  done  his  greatest 
works.  Let  the  trees  go  to  pieces,  by  all  means ; it  is  quite  right  they 
should ; he  is  always  right. 

But  in  a background  of  Gainsborough  you  would  find  the  trees 
unjustifiably  gone  to  pieces.  The  carelessness  of  form  there  is  defi- 
nitely purposed  by  him  ; — adopted  as  an  advisable  thing ; and  therefore 
it  is  both  absolutely  and  relatively  wrong: — it  indicates  his  being 
imperfectly  educated  as  a painter,  and  not  having  brought  out  all  his 
powers.  It  may  still  happen  that  the  man  whose  work  is  thus  partially 
erroneous  is  greater  far,  than  others  who  have  fewer  faults.  Gains- 
borough’s and  Reynolds’  wrongs  are  more  charming  than  almost 


APPENDIX  I. 


203 


anybody  else’s  right.  Still,  they  occasionally  are  wrong — but  the 
Venetians  and  Velasquez,*  never. 

I ought,  perhaps,  to  have  added  in  that  Manchester  address  (only 
one  does  not  like  to  say  things  that  shock  people)  some  words  of  warn- 
ing against  painters  likely  to  mislead  the  student.  For  indeed,  though 
here  and  there  something  may  be  gained  by  looking  at  inferior  men, 
there  is  always  more  to  be  gained  by  looking  at  the  best ; and  there  is 
not  time,  with  all  the  looking  of  human  life,  to  exhaust  even  one  great 
painter’s  instruction.  How  then  shall  we  dare  to  waste  our  sight  and 
thoughts  on  inferior  ones,  even  if  we  could  do  so,  which  we  rarely  can, 
without  danger  of  being  led  astray  ? Hay,  strictly  speaking,  what 
people  call  inferior  painters  are  in  general  no  painters.  Artists  are 
divided  by  an  impassable  gulf  into  the  men  who  can  paint,  and  who 
cannot.  The  men  who  can  paint  often  fall  short  of  what  they  should 
have  done ; — are  repressed,  or  defeated,  or  otherwise  rendered  inferior 
one  to  another : still  there  is  an  everlasting  barrier  between  them  and 
the  men  who  cannot  paint — who  can  only  in  various  popular  ways 
pretend  to  paint.  And  if  once  you  know  the  difference,  there  is  always 
some  good  to  be  got  by  looking  at  a real  painter — seldom  anything  but 
mischief  to  be  got  out  of  a false  one ; but  do  not  suppose  real  painters 
are  common.  I do  not  speak  of  living  men ; but  among  those  who 
labour  no  more,  in  this  England  of  ours,  since  it  first  had  a school,  we 
have  had  only  five  real  painters  ; — Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  Hogarth, 
Richard  Wilson,  and  Turner. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  think  I have  forgotten  Wilkie.  No.  I 
once  much  overrated  him  as  an  expressional  draughtsman,  not  having 
then  studied  the  figure  long  enough  to  be  able  to  detect  superficial 
sentiment.  But  his  colour  I have  never  praised ; it  is  entirely  false  and 
valueless.  And  it  would  be  unjust  to  English  art  if  I did  not  here 
express  my  regret  that  the  admiration  of  Constable,  already  harmful 
enough  in  England,  is  extending  even  into  France.  There  was,  per- 
haps, the  making,  in  Constable,  of  a second  or  third-rate  painter,  if 
any  careful  discipline  had  developed  in  him  the  instincts  which,  though 
unparalleled  for  narrowness,  were,  as  far  as  they  went,  true.  But  as  it 

* At  least  after  his  style  was  formed ; early  pictures,  like  the  Adoration 
of  the  Magi  in  our  Gallery,  are  of  little  value. 


204 


APPENDICES. 


is,  he  is  nothing  more  than  an  industrious  and  innocent  amateur, 
blundering  his  way  to  a superficial  expression  of  one  or  two  popular 
aspects  of  common  nature. 

And  my  readers  may  depend  upon  it,  that  all  blame  which  I express 
in  this  sweeping  way  is  trustworthy.  I have  often  had  to  repent  of 
over-praise  of  inferior  men ; and  continually  to  repent  of  insufficient 
praise  of  great  men ; but  of  broad  condemnation,  never.  For  I do 
not  speak  it  but  after  the  most  searching  examination  of  the  matter, 
and  under  stern  sense  of  need  for  it : so  that  whenever  the  reader  is 
entirely  shocked  by  what  I say,  he  may  be  assured  every  word  is  true.* 
It  is  just  because  it  so  much  offends  him,  that  it  was  necessary : and 
knowing  that  it  must  offend  him,  I should  not  have  ventured  to  say  it, 
without  certainty  of  its  truth.  I say  “ certainty,”  for  it  is  just  as 
possible  to  be  certain  whether  the  drawing  of  a tree  or  a stone  is  true 
or  false,  as  whether  the  drawing  of  a triangle  is ; and  what  I mean 
primarily  by  saying  that  a picture  is  in  all  respects  worthless,  is  that  it 
is  in  all  respects  False  : which  is  not  a matter  of  opinion  at  all,  but  a 
matter  of  ascertainable  fact,  such  as  I never  assert  till  I have  ascertained. 
And  the  thing  so  commonly  said  about  my  writings,  that  they  are 
rather  persuasive  than  just;  and  that  though  my  “language*’  may  be 
good,  I am  an  unsafe  guide  in  art  criticism,  is,  like  many  other  popular 
estimates  in  such  matters,  not  merely  untrue,  but  precisely  the  reverse 
of  the  truth ; it  is  truth,  like  reflections  in  water,  distorted  much  by 
the  shaking  receptive  surface,  and  in  every  particular,  upside  down. 
For  my  “language,”  until  within  the  last  six  or  seven  years,  was  loose, 
obscure,  and  more  or  less  feeble ; and  still,  though  I have  tried  hard  to 
mend  it,  the  best  I can  do  is  inferior  to  much  contemporary  work.  No 
description  that  I have  ever  given  of  anything  is  worth  four  lines  of 
Tennyson ; and  in  serious  thought,  my  half-pages  are  generally  only 
worth  about  as  much  as  a single  sentence  either  of  his.  or  of  Carlyle’s. 
They  are,  I well  trust,  as  true  and  necessary ; but  they  are  neither  so 

* He  must,  however,  be  careful  to  distinguish  blame— however  strongly 
expressed,  of  some  special  fault  or  error  in  a true  painter, — from  these  general 
statements  of  inferiority  or  worthlessness.  Thus  he  will  find  me  continually 
laughing  at  Wilson’s  tree-painting ; not  because  Wilson  could  not  paint,  but 
because  he  had  never  looked  at  a tree. 


APPENDIX  I. 


205 


concentrated  nor  so  well  put.  But  I am  an  entirely  safe  guide  in  art 
judgment : and  that  simply  as  the  necessary  result  of  my  having  given 
the  labour  of  life  to  the  determination  of  facts,  rather  than  to  the  follow- 
ing of  feelings  or  theories.  Not,  indeed,  that  my  work  is  free  from 
mistakes;  it  admits  many,  and  always  must  admit  many,  from  its 
scattered  range ; but,  in  the  long  run,  it  will  be  found  to  enter  sternly 
and  searchingly  into  the  nature  of  what  it  deals  with,  and  the  kind  of 
mistake  it  admits  is  never  dangerous — consisting,  usually,  in  pressing 
the  truth  too  far.  It  is  quite  easy,  for  instance,  to  take  an  accidental 
irregularity  in  a piece  of  architecture,  which  less  careful  examination 
would  never  have  detected  at  all,  for  an  intentional  irregularity ; quite 
possible  to  misinterpret  an  obscure  passage  in  a picture,  which  a less 
earnest  observer  would  never  have  tried  to  interpret.  But  mistakes 
of  this  kind — honest,  enthusiastic  mistakes — are  never  harmful ; because 
they  are  always  made  in  a true  direction, — falls  forward  on  the  road, 
not  into  the  ditch  beside  it ; and  they  are  sure  to  be  corrected  by  the 
next  comer.  But  the  blunt  and  dead  mistakes  made  by  too  many  othei 
writers  on  art — the  mistakes  of  sheer  inattention,  and  want  of  sym- 
pathy— are  mortal.  The  entire  purpose  of  a great  thinker  may  be 
difficult  to  fathom,  and  we  may  be  over  and  over  again  more  or  less 
mistaken  in  guessing  at  his  meaning ; but  the  real,  profound,  nay,  quite 
bottomless,  and  unredeemable  mistake,  is  the  fool’s  thought — that  he 
had  no  meaning. 

I do  not  refer,  in  saying  this,  to  any  of  my  statements  respecting 
subjects  which  it  has  been  my  main  work  to  study : as  far  as  I am 
aware,  I have  never  yet  misinterpreted  any  picture  of  Turner’s,  though 
often  remaining  blind  to  the  half  of  what  he  had  intended : neither 
have  I as  yet  found  anything  to  correct  in  my  statements  respecting 
Venetian  architecture  ;*  but  in  casual  references  to  what  has  been 
quickly  seen,  it  is  impossible  to  guard  wholly  against  error,  without 
losing  much  valuable  observation,  true  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a 
hundred,  and  harmless  even  when  erroneous. 

* The  subtle  proportions  of  the  Byzantine  Palaces,  given  in  precise  measure- 
ments in  the  second  volume  of  the  “Stones  of  Venice,”  were  alleged  by 
architects  to  be  accidental  irregularities.  They  will  be  found,  by  every  one  who 
will  take  the  pains  to  examine  them,  most  assuredly  and  indisputably  inten- 
tional,— and  not  only  so,  but  one  of  the  principal  subjects  of  the  designer’s  care. 


-206 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  II. 


REYNOLDS’  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

It  is  very  fortunate  that  in  the  fragment  of  Mason’s  MSS.,  published 
lately  by  Mr.  Cotton  in  his  “ Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’  Notes,”*  record 
is  preserved  of  Sir  Joshua’s  feelings  respecting  the  paintings  in  the 
window  of  New  College,  which  might  otherwise  have  been  supposed 
to  give  his  full  sanction  to  this  mode  of  painting  on  glass.  Nothing 
can  possibly  be  more  curious,  to  my  mind,  than  the  great  painter’s  ex- 
pectations ; or  his  having  at  all  entertained  the  idea  that  the  qualities 
of  colour  which  are  peculiar  to  opaque  bodies  could  be  obtained  in  a 
transparent  medium ; but  so  it  is : and  with  the  simplicity  and  hum- 
bleness of  an  entirely  great  man  he  hopes  that  Mr.  Jervas  on  glass  is 
to  excel  Sir  Joshua  on  canvas.  Happily,  Mason  tells  us  the  result. 

“With  the  copy  Jervas  made  of  this  picture  he  was  grievously  dis- 
appointed. 1 1 had  frequently,’  he  said  to  me,  1 pleased  myself  by  reflect- 
ing, after  I had  produced  what  I thought  a brilliant  effect  of  light  and 
shadow  on  my  canvas,  how  greatly  that  effect  would  be  heightened  by 
the  transparency  which  the  painting  on  glass  would  be  sure  to  produce. 
It  turned  out  quite  the  reverse.’  ” 


* Smith,  Soho  Square,  1859. 


APPENDIX  III 


207 


APPENDIX  III. 


CLASSICAL  ARCHITECTURE. 

This  passage  in  the  lecture  was  illustrated  by  an  enlargement  of  the 
woodcut,  fig.  1 ; but  I did  not  choose  to  disfigure  the  middle  of  this 


book  with  it.  It  is  copied  from  the  49th  plate  of  the  third  edition  of 
the  “ Encyclopaedia  Britannica”  (Edinburgh,  1797),  and  represents  an 
English  farmhouse  arranged  on  classical  principles.  If  the  reader  cares 
to  consult  the  work  itself,  he  will  find  in  the  same  plate  another  com- 
position of  similar  propriety,  and  dignified  by  the  addition  of  a pedi- 
ment, beneath  the  shadow  of  which  u a private  gentleman  who  has  a 
small  family  may  find  conveniency.” 


208 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  IY. 


SUBTLETY  OF  HAND. 

I had  intended  in  one  or  other  of  these  lectures  to  have  spoken  at 
some  length  of  the  quality  of  refinement  in  Colour,  but  found  the  sub- 
ject would  lead  me  too  far.  A few  words  are,  however,  necessary  in 
order  to  explain  some  expressions  in  the  text. 

“ Refinement  in  colour  ” is  indeed  a tautological  expression,  for 
colour,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  does  not  exist  until  it  is  refined. 
Dirt  exists, — stains  exist, — and  pigments  exist,  easily  enough  in  all 
places  ; and  are  laid  on  easily  enough  by  all  hands ; but  colour  exists 
only  where  there  is  tenderness,  and  can  be  laid  on  only  by  a hand 
which  has  strong  life  in  it.  The  law  concerning  colour  is  very  strange, 
very  noble,  in  some  sense  almost  awful.  In  every  given  touch  laid  on 
canvas,  if  one  grain  of  the  colour  is  inoperative,  and  does  not  take  its 
full  part  in  producing  the  hue,  the  hue  will  be  imperfect.  The  grain  of 
colour  which  does  not  work  is  dead.  It  infects  all  about  it  with  its 
death.  It  must  be  got  quit  of,  or  the  touch  is  spoiled.  We  acknow- 
ledge this  instinctively  in  our  use  of  the  phrases  “dead  color,”  “killed 
colour,”  “ foul  colour.”  Those  words  are,  in  some  sort,  literally  true. 
If  more  colour  is  put  on  than  is  necessary,  a heavy  touch  when  a light 
one  would  have  been  enough,  the  quantity  of  colour  that  was  not 
wanted,  and  is  overlaid  by  the  rest,  is  as  dead,  and  it  pollutes  the  rest. 
There  will  be  no  good  in  the  touch. 

The  art  of  painting,  properly  so  called,  consists  in  laying  on  the  least 
possible  colour  that  will  produce  the  required  result,  and  this  measure- 
ment, in  all  the  ultimate,  that  is  to  say,  the  principal,  operations  of 
colouring,  is  so  delicate  that  not  one  human  hand  in  a million  has  the 
required  lightness.  The  final  touch  of  any  painter  properly  so  named, 
of  Correggio — Titian — Turner — or  Reynolds — would  be  always  quite 


APPENDIX  IV. 


209 


invisible  to  any  one  watching  the  progress  of  the  work,  the  films  of 
hue  being  laid  thinner  than  the  depths  of  the  grooves  in  mother-of- 
pearl.  The  work  may  be  swift,  apparently  careless,  nay,  to  the  painter 
himself  almost  unconscious.  Great  painters  are  so  organized  that  they 
do  their  best  work  without  effort ; but  analyze  the  touches  afterwards, 
and  you  will  find  the  structure  and  depth  of  the  colour  laid  mathe- 
matically demonstrable  to  be  of  literally  infinite  fineness,  the  last  touch- 
es passing  away  at  their  edges  by  untraceable  gradation.  The  very 
essence  of  a master’s  work  may  thus  be  removed  by  a picture-cleaner 
in  ten  minutes. 

Observe,  however,  this  thinness  exists  only  in  portions  of  the  ulti- 
mate touches,  for  which  the  preparation  may  often  have  been  made 
with  solid  colours,  commonly,  and  literally,  called  11  dead  colouring,” 
but  even  that  is  always  subtle  if  a master  lays  it — subtle  at  least  in 
drawing,  if  simple  in  hue ; and  farther,  observe  that  the  refinement  of 
work  consists  not  in  laying  absolutely  little  colour,  but  in  always  laying 
precisely  the  right  quantity.  To  lay  on  little  needs  indeed  the  rare 
lightness  of  hand ; buff  to  lay  much, — ye t not  one  atom  too  much,  and 
obtain  subtlety,  not  by  withholding  strength,  but  by  precision  of  pause, 
— that  is  the  master’s  final  sign-manual — power,  knowledge,  and  ten- 
derness all  united.  A great  deal  of  colour  may  often  be  wanted ; per- 
haps quite  a mass  of  it,  such  as  shall  project  from  the  canvas ; but  the 
real  painter  lays  this  mass  of  its  required  thickness  and  shape  with  as 
much  precision  as  if  it  were  a bud  of  a flower  which  he  had  to  touch 
into  blossom ; one  of  Turner’s  loaded  fragments  of  white  cloud  is  mo- 
delled and  gradated  in  an  instant,  as  if  it  alone  were  the  subject  of  the 
picture,  when  the  same  quantity  of  colour,  under  another  hand,  would 
be  a lifeless  lump. 

The  following  extract  from  a letter  in  the  Literary  Gazette  of  13  th 
November,  1858,  which  I was  obliged  to  write  to  defend  a questioned 
expression  respecting  Turner’s  subtlety  of  hand  from  a charge  of  hy- 
perbole, contains  some  interesting  and  conclusive  evidence  on  the  point, 
though  it  refers  to  pencil  and  chalk  drawing  only  : — 

“I  must  ask  you  to  allow  me  yet  leave  to  reply  to  the  objections 
you  make  to  two  statements  in  my  catalogue,  as  those  objections  would 
otherwise  diminish  its  usefulness.  I have  asserted  that,  in  a given 
drawing  (named  as  one  of  the  chief  in  the  series),  Turner’s  pencil  did 


210 


APPENDICES. 


not  move  over  the  thousandth  of  an  inch  without  meaning ; and  you 
charge  this  expression  with  extravagant  hyperbole.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  much  within  the  truth,  being  merely  a mathematically  accurate 
description  of  fairly  good  execution  in  either  drawing  or  engraving.  It 
is  only  necessary  to  measure  a piece  of  any  ordinary  good  work  to  ascer- 
tain this.  Take,  for  instance,  Finden’s  engraving  at  the  180th  page  of 
Rogers’  poems ; in  which  the  face  of  the  figure,  from  the  chin  to  the  top 
of  the  brow,  occupies  just  a quarter  of  an  inch,  and  the  space  between 
the  upper  lip  and  chin  as  nearly  as  possible  one-seventeenth  of  an  inch. 
The  whole  mouth  occupies  one-third  of  this  space,  say  one-fiftieth  of 
an  inch,  and  within  that  space  both  the  lips  and  the  much  more  diffi- 
cult inner  corner  of  the  mouth  are  perfectly  drawn  and  rounded,  with 
quite  successful  and  sufficiently  subtle  expression.  Any  artist  will 
assure  you  that  in  order  to  draw  a mouth  as  well  as  this,  there  must 
be  more  than  twenty  gradations  of  shade  in  the  touches ; that  is  to 
say,  in  this  case,  gradations  changing,  with  meaning,  within  less  than 
the  thousandth  of  an  inch. 

u But  this  is  mere  child’s  play  compared  to  the  refinement  of  a first- 
rate  mechanical  work-much  more  of  brush  or  pencil  drawing  by  a 
master’s  hand.  In  order  at  once  to  furnish  you  with  authoritative 
evidence  on  this  point,  I wrote  to  Mr.  Kingsley,  tutor  of  Sidney-Sus- 
sex  College,  a friend  to  whom  I always  have  recourse  when  I want  to 
be  precisely  right  in  any  matter ; for  his  great  knowledge  both  of 
mathematics  and  of  natural  science  is  joined,  not  only  with  singular 
powers  of  delicate  experimental  manipulation,  but  with  a keen  sensi- 
tiveness to  beauty  in  art.  His  answer,  in  its  final  statement  respecting 
Turner’s  work,  is  amazing  even  to  me,  and  will,  I should  think,  be 
more  so  to  your  readers.  Observe  the  successions  of  measured  and 
tested  refinement:  here  is  No.  1 

u L The  finest  mechanical  work  that  I know,  which  is  not  optical,  is 
that  done  by  Nobert  in  the  way  of  ruling  lines.  I have  a series  ruled 
by  him  on  glass,  giving  actual  scales  from  *000024  and  *000016  of  an 
inch,  perfectly  correct  to  these  places  of  decimals,  and  he  has  executed 
others  as  fine  as  *000012,  though  I do  not  know  how  far  he  could  re- 
peat these  last  with  accuracy.’ 

“ This  is  No.  1,  of  precision.  Mr.  Kingsley  proceeds  to  No.  2 : — 

u 1 But  this  is  rude  work  compared  to  the  accuracy  necessary  for  the 


APPENDIX  IV. 


211 


construction  of  the  object-glass  of  a microscope  such  as  Rosse  turns 
out.’ 

‘‘Iam  sorry  to  omit  the  explanation  which  follows  of  the  ten  lenses 
composing  such  a glass,  1 each  of  which  must  be  exact  in  radius  and  in 
surface,  and  all  have  their  axes  coincident but  it  would  not  be  intel- 
ligible without  the  figure  by  which  it  is  illustrated ; so  I pass  to  Mr. 
'Kingsley’s  No.  3: — 

“ * I am  tolerably  familiar,’  he  proceeds,  1 with  the  actual  grinding 
and  polishing  of  lenses  and  specula,  and  have  produced  by  my  own 
hand  some  by  no  means  bad  optical  work,  and  I have  copied  no  small 
amount  of  Turner’s  work,  and  I still  look  with  awe  at  the  combined  deli- 
cacy and  precision  of  his  hand ; it  beats  optical  work  out  of  sight. 
In  optical  work,  as  in  refined  drawing,  the  hand  goes  beyond  the  eye, 
and  one  has  to  depend  upon  the  feel ; and  when  one  has  once  learned 
what  a delicate  affair  touch  is,  one  gets  a horror  of  all  coarse  work,  and 
is  ready  to  forgive  any  amount  of  feebleness,  sooner  than  that  boldness 
which  is  akin  to  impudence.  In  optics  the  distinction  is  easily  seen 
when  the  work  is  put  to  trial;  but  here  too,  as  in  drawing,  it  requires 
an  educated  eye  to  tell  the  difference  when  the  work  is  only  moderately 
bad;  but  with  “bold”  work,  nothing  can  be  seen  but  distortion  and 
fog : and  I heartily  wish  the  same  result  would  follow  the  same  kind 
of  handling  in  drawing ; but  here,  the  boldness  cheats  the  unlearned  by 
looking  like  the  precision  of  the  true  man.  It  is  very  strange  how 
much  better  our  ears  are  than  our  eyes  in  this  country : if  an  ignorant 
man  were  to  be  “bold”  with  a violin,  he  would  not  get  many  admirers, 
though  his  boldness  was  far  below  that  of  ninety-nine  out  of  a hundred 
drawings  one  sees.’ 

“ The  words  which  I have  put  in  italics  in  the  above  extract  are 
those  which  were  surprising  to  me.  I knew  that  Turner’s  was  as  re- 
fined as  any  optical  work,  but  had  no  idea  of  its  going  beyond  it.  Mr. 
Kingsley’s  word  ‘awe’  occurring  just  before,  is,  however,  as  I have 
often  felt,  precisely  the  right  one.  When  once  we  begin  at  all  to  un- 
derstand the  handling  of  any  truly  great  executor,  such  as  that  of  any 
of  the  three  great  V enetians,  of  Correggio,  or  Turner,  the  awe  of  it  is 
something  greater  than  can  be  felt  from  the  most  stupendous  natural 
scenery.  For  the  creation  of  such  a system  as  a high  human  intelli- 
gence, endowed  with  its  ineffably  perfect  instruments  of  eye  and  hand, 


212 


APPENDICES. 


is  a far  more  appalling  manifestation  of  Infinite  Power,  than  the  mak- 
ing either  of  seas  or  mountains. 

11  After  this  testimony  to  the  completion  of  Turner’s  work,  I need 
not  at  length  defend  myself  from  the  charge  of  hyperbole  in  the  state- 
ment that,  1 as  far  as  I know,  the  galleries  of  Europe  may  be  challenged 
to  produce  one  sketch*  that  shall  equal  the  chalk  study  No.  45,  or  the 
feeblest  of  the  memoranda  in  the  71st  and  following  frames ; ’ which 
memoranda,  however,  it  should  have  been  observed,  are  stated  at  the 
44th  page  to  be  in  some  respects  1 the  grandest  work  in  grey  that  he 
did  in  his  life.*  Eor  I believe  that,  as  manipulators,  none  but  the  four 
men  whom  I have  just  named  (the  three  Venetians  and  Correggio) 
were  equal  to  Turner ; and,  as  far  as  I know,  none  of  those  four  ever 
put  their  full  strength  into  sketches.  But  whether  they  did  or  not, 
my  statement  in  the  catalogue  is  limited  by  my  own  knowledge : and, 
as  far  as  I can  trust  that  knowledge,  it  is  not  ^an  enthusiastic  state- 
ment, but  an  entirely  calm  and  considered  one.  It  may  be  a mistake, 
but  it  is  not  a hyperbole.” 


APPENDIX  V. 


I can  only  give,  to  illustrate  this  balcony,  fac-similes  of  rough  memo- 
randa made  on  a single  leaf  of  my  note-book,  with  a tired  hand ; but 
it  may  be  useful  to  young  students  to  see  them,  in  order  that  they  may 
know  the  difference  between  notes  made  to  get  at  the  gist  and  heart 
of  a thing,  and  notes  made  merely  to  look  neat.  Only  it  must  be  ob- 
served that  the  best  characters  of  free  drawing  are  always  lost  even  in 

* A sketch,  observe,— not  a finished  drawing.  Sketches  are  only  proper 
subjects  of  comparison  with  each  other  when  they  contain  about  the  same 
quantity  of  work : the  test  of  their  merit  is  the  quantity  of  truth  told  with  a 
given  number  of  touches.  The  assertion  in  the  Catalogue  which  this  letter 
was  written  to  defend,  was  made  respecting  the  sketch  of  Eome,  No.  101. 


APPENDIX  Y. 


213 


the  most  careful  fac-simile ; and  I should  not  show  even  these  slight 
notes  in  wood-cut  imitation,  unless  the  reader  had  it  in  his  power,  by 
a glance  at  the  21st  or  35th  plates  in  Modern  Painters  (and  yet  better, 
by  trying  to  copy  a piece  of  either  of  them),  to  ascertain  how  far  I can 
draw  or  not.  I refer  to  these  plates,  because,  though  I distinctly 
stated  in  the  preface  that  they,  together  with  the  12th,  20th,  34th, 
and  37th,  were  executed  on  the  steel  by  my  own  hand,  (the  use  of  the 
dry  point  in  the  foregrounds  of  the  12th  and  21st  plates  being  more- 
over wholly  different  from  the  common  processes  of  etching)  I find  it 
constantly  assumed  that  they  were  engraved  for  me — as  if  direct 
lying  in  such  matters  were  a thing  of  quite  common  usage. 

Pig.  2 is  the  centre-piece  of  the  balcony,  but  a leaf-spray  is  omitted 
on  the  right-hand  side,  having  been  too  much  buried  among  the  real 
leaves  to  be  drawn. 


Fig.  2. 


Fig.  3 shows  the  intended  general  effect  of 
its  masses,  the  five-leaved  and  six-leaved 
flowers  being  clearly  distinguishable  at  any 
distance. 

Fig.  4 is  its  profile,  rather  carefully  drawn 
at  the.  top,  to  show  the  tulip  and  turkscap 
lily  leaves.  Underneath  there  is  a plate 


214 


APPENDICES. 


of  iron  beaten  into  broad  thin  leaves,  which  gives  the  centre  of 
the  balcony  a gradual  sweep  outwards,  like  the  side  of  a ship  of 


war. 


This  central  profile  is  of  the  greatest  importance  in  ironwork, 


APPENDIX  Y. 


215 


as  the  flow  of  it  affects  the  curves  of  the  whole  design,  not  merely  in 
surface,  as  in  marble  carving,  but  in  their  intersections,  when  the  side 
is  seen  through  the  front.  The  lighter  leaves,  b 6,  are  real  bindweed. 

Pig.  5 shows  two  of  the  teeth  of  the 
border,  illustrating  their  irregularity  of 
form,  which  takes  place  quite  to  the  extent 
indicated. 

Fig.  6 is  the  border  at  the  side  of  the 
balcony,  showing  the  most  interesting 
circumstance  in  the  treatment  of  the  whole,  namely,  the  enlargement 
and  retraction  of  the  teeth  of  the  cornice,  as  it  approaches  the  wall. 


This  treatment  of  the  whole  cornice  as  a kind  of  wreath  round  the 
balcony,  having  its  leaves  flung  loose  at  the  back,  and  set  close  at  the 
front,  as  a girl  would  throw  a wreath  of  leaves  round  her  hair,  is  pre- 
cisely the  most  finished  indication  of  a good  workman’s  mind  to  be 
found  in  the  whole  thing. 

Fig.  7 shows  the  outline  of  the  retracted  leaves  accurately. 


It  was  noted  in  the  text  that  the  whole  of  this  ironwork  had  been 
coloured.  The  difficulty  of  colouring  ironwork  rightly,  and  the 
necessity  of  doing  it  in  some  way  or  other,  have  been  the  principal 
reasons  for  my  never  having  entered  heartily  into  this  subject ; for  all 
the  ironwork  I have  ever  seen  look  beautiful  was  rusty,  and  rusty  iron 


Fig.  5. 


216 


APPENDICES. 


will  not  answer  modern  purposes.  Nevertheless  it  may  be  painted ; 
but  it  needs  some  one  to  do  it  who  knows  what  painting  means,  and 
few  of  us  do — certainly  none,  as  yet,  of  our  restorers  of  decoration  or 
writers  on  colour. 

It  is  a marvellous  thing  to  me  that  book  after  book  should  appear  on 
this  last  subject,  without  apparently  the  slightest  consciousness  on  the 
part  of  the  writers  that  the  first  necessity  of  beauty  in  colour  is  grada- 
tion, as  the  first  necessity  of  beauty  in  line  is  curvature,— or  that  the 
second  necessity  in  colour  is  mystery  or  subtlety,  as  the  second  neces- 
sity in  line  is  softness.  Colour  ungradated  is  wholly  valueless ; colour 
unmysterious  is  wholly  barbarous.  Unless  it  loses  itself  and  melts 
away  towards  other  colours,  as  a true  line  loses  itself  and  melts  away 
towards  other  lines,  colour  has  no  proper  existence,  in  the  noble  sense 
of  the  word.  What  a cube,  or  tetrahedron,  is  to  organic  form,  ungra- 
dated and  unconfused  colour  is  to  organic  colour ; and  a person  who 
attempts  to  arrange  colour  harmonies  without  gradation  of  tint  is  in 
precisely  the  same  category,  as  an  artist  who  should  try  to  compose 
a beautiful  picture  out  of  an  accumulation  of  cubes  and  parallelopi- 
peds. 

The  value  of  hue  in  all  illuminations  on  painted  glass  of  fine  periods 
depends  primarily  on  the  expedients  used  to  make  the  colours  palpitate 
and  fluctuate ; inequality  of  brilliancy  being  the  condition  of  brilliancy, 
just  as  inequality  of  accent  is  the  condition  of  power  and  loveliness  in 
sound.  The  skill  with  which  the  thirteenth  century  illuminators  in 
books,  and  the  Indians  in  shawls  and  carpets,  use  the  minutest  atoms 
of  colour  to  gradate  other  colours,  and  confuse  the  eye,  is  the  first 
secret  in  their  gift  of  splendour : associated,  however,  with  so  many 
other  artifices  which  are  quite  instinctive  and  unteachable,  that  it  is  of 
little  use  to  dwell  upon  them.  Delicacy  of  organization  in  the  designer 
given,  you  will  soon  have  all,  and  without  it,  nothing.  However,  not 
to  close  my  book  with  desponding  words,  let  me  set  down,  as  many 
of  us  like  such  things,  five  Laws  to  which  there  is  no  exception 
whatever,  and  which,  if  they  can  enable  no  one  to  produce  good 
colour,  are  at  least,  as  far  as  they  reach,  accurately  condemnatory  of 
bad  colour. 

1.  All  good  colour  is  gradated.  A blush  rose  (or,  better  still, 
a blush  itself),  is  the  type  of  rightness  in  arrangement  of  pure  hue. 


APPENDIX  Y. 


217 


2.  All  harmonies  of  colour  depend  for  their  vitality  on  the 

ACTION  AND  HELPFUL  OPERATION  OF  EVERY  PARTICLE  OF  COLOUR  THEY 
CONTAIN. 

3.  The  final  particles  of  colour  necessary  to  the  completeness 

OF  A COLOUR  HARMONY  ARE  ALWAYS  INFINITELY  SMALL;  either  laid  by 

immeasurably  subtle  touches  of  the  pencil,  or  produced  by  portions  of 
the  colouring  substance,  however  distributed,  which  are  so  absolutely 
small  as  to  become  at  the  intended  distance  infinitely  so  to  the  eye. 

4.  No  COLOUR  HARMONY  IS  OF  HIGH  ORDER  UNLESS  IT  INVOLVES  INDE- 
SCRIBABLE tints.  It  is  the  best  possible  sign  of  a colour  when  nobody 
who  sees  it  knows  what  to  call  it,  or  how  to  give  an  idea  of  it  to  any 
one  else.  Even  among  simple  hues  the  most  valuable  are  those 
which  cannot  be  defined ; the  most  precious  purples  will  look  brown 
beside  pure  purple,  and  purple  beside  pure  brown ; and  the  most  pre- 
cious greens  will  be  called  blue  if  seen  beside  pure  green,  and  green  if 
seen  beside  pure  blue. 

5.  The  finer  the  eye  for  colour,  the  less  it  will  require  to 
gratify  it  intensely.  But  that  little  must  be  supremely  good  and 
pure,  as  the  finest  notes  of  a great  singer,  which  are  so  near  to  silence. 
And  a great  colourist  will  make  even  the  absence  of  colour  lovely,  as 
the  fading  of  the  perfect  voice  makes  silence  sacred. 


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The  whole  being  adapted  to  Schools,  Self-Instruction,  or  Counting-House  Reference. 

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Review. 

RUSKIN  (JOHN.)  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE.  The  Foundations.  By  the 
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remember.” — Guardicm. 

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the  author  of  “ Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture.”  8vo.  Paper  cover  . . . . 12$ 

RUSKIN  (JOHN.)  LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE  AND  PAINTING.  De- 
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JOHN  WILEY. 


3 


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CHEEVER  (REV  GEORGE  B.)  WANDERINGS  OF  A PILGEIM  IN  THE 
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lative. 1 vol.  12mo.  Cloth,  with  Steel  Portrait  of  the  Author  . . 1 00 

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DOWNING  (A.  J.)  COTTAGE  RESIDENCES;  or,  a Series  of  Designs  Tor  Enra. 
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of  a rural  home  ” 


4 


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DOWNING  (A.  J.)  LINDLEY’S  HORTICULTURE.  With  additions.  Ivoi  12ir«.  1 £© 

DOWNING  (Ab  J.)  THE  FRUITS  AMD  FRUIT  TREES  OF  AMERICA;  or, 
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Trees  generally;  with  Descriptions  of  the  Finest  Varieties  of  Fruits,  Native  and 
Foreign,  cultivated  in  this  country.  Tentn  edition,  revised.  12mo.  Cloth  . . 1 ^ 

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works.  Cloth.  In  preparation . . . 2 fif 

DOWNING  (A.  JO  The  same.  New  edition.  With  about  80  specimens  choice 
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“An  invaluable  vade-mecum  in  the  fruit  department.” — Christ.  Intelligencer . 

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DOWNING  (A.  L)  WIGHTWICK’S  HINTS  TO  YOUNG  ARCHITECTS.  Cal- 
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DOWNING  (A.  J.) 


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from  his  MSS.  by  Playfair  and  Gregory.  From  the  4th  London  edition.  12mo.  Cloth  1 00 

LIEBIG’S  PRINCIPLES  OF  AGRICULTURAL  CHEMISTRY.  With  spe- 
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LIEBIG'S  PRINCIPLES  OF  AGRICULTURAL  CHEMISTRY.  ANIMAL 
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Edited  from  the  author’s  Manuscript,  by  William  Gregory,  M D.,  F.R  S.E.,  etc. 

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CLAUSSEN.  THE  FLAN  MOVEMENT — its  National  Importance  and  Advan 
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BURG-ESS,  N.  G.  THE  PHOTOGRAPH  AND  AMBROTYPE  MANUAL. 

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and  Glass,  &c.  1 vol.  18mo.  Cloth.  $1  00. 

EAIRBAIRN  (WM.)  C.E.,  E.R.S.,  ETC.  ON  THE  APPLICATION  OP 
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HAND  BOOK  OE  YOUNG  ARTISTS  AND  AMATEURS  IN  OIL 

PAINTING; 

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other  distinguished  Continental  Writers  on  the  Art.  Adapted  for  a Text-Book,  as  well 
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an  American  Artist.  12mo.  Cloth.  $1  25. 

HATFIELD  (R.  G.).  THE  AMERICAN  HOUSE  CARPENTER. 

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pages  and  numerous  additional  plates.  1 vol.  8vo.  $2  50. 

“ Every  House  Carpenter  ought  to  possess  one  of  these  books.” — Journal  of  Commerce, 

LESLEY  (J.  P.).  THE  IRON  MANUFACTURER’S  GUIDE, 

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American  Production  of  Iron,  and  a geological  discussion  of  the  Iron  Ores  of  the  U.  S., 
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the  Board  of  Managers.  1 vol.  8vo.  $5  00. 

“ Invaluable  to  every  miner,  manufacturer,  and  dealer  of  iron.” 

REID’S  VENTILATION  IN  AMERICAN  DWELLINGS. 

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cinnaU  Gazette. 

SMITH  (LIEUT.  R.  S.).  A MANUAL  OF  TOPOGRAPHICAL  DRAWING. 

By  Lieut.  E.  S.  Smith,  U.  S.  Army,  Professor  of  Drawing  in  the  U.  S.  Military  Academy, 
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SMITH  (LIEUT.  R.  S.).  MANUAL  OF  LINEAR  PERSPECTIVE. 

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“ We  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  a more  complete  and  popular  treatise  on  the  sub- 
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WEISSENBORN  (G.)  AMERICAN  ENGINEERING. 

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1.— MODERN  PAINTERS.  YOL.  L— GENERAL  PRINCIPLES  OE  ART, 

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Price,  63  cents. 

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train  men  who  have  always  been  delighted  spectators  of  nature,  to  be  also  attentive 
observers.  Our  critics  will  learn  to  admire,  and  mere  admirers  will  learn  how  to  criti- 
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paints  it  with  a firmness  of  outline  and  vividness  of  colouring  that  will  bring  it  before 
the  imagination  with  the  force  of  reality.” — Literary  Gazette. 

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SHEEPEOLDS. 

In  1 vol.  50  cts. 

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In  Three  Letters  to  Beginners.  1 vol.  Plates.  75  cts. 

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without  this  work  as  a compass  in  the  binnacle.” — Athenceum. 

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Being  the  Subject  (with  additions)  of  two  lectures  delivered  at  Manchester,  July,  1857. 
lvol.  50  cts. 

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works  of  John  Ruskin,  with  a notice  of  the  author.  By  Mrs.  L/C.  Tuthill.  1 vol.  $1  25. 

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its  technicalities,  making  it  an  agreeable  companion  to  the  Drawing  Room. 

“ The  author  is  an  enthusiast,  and  inspires  the  reader  with  his  own  intense  love  for  the 
True  and  the  Good.  It  would  be  well  to  make  this  work  a study  in  schools  and 
colleges. ” — N.  Y.  Observer. 


GETTY  RESEARCH  INSTITUTE 


